#patrick: it's fun to watch me sizzle.

[badnewswhatsleft]

"sometimes patrick's opinion is like a grease fire" got me so good (2015)

[mercy-burning]

Fake Fiancée - Part 2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Reader becomes rather possessive over Spencer when she learns he’s been been with someone else since they hooked up four months ago. Category: SMUT (18+) Content Warnings: Language, mutual masturbation, oral sex (male and female receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, hand-on-neck (no choking), praise, degradation kink, possession kink, dirty talk Word Count: 7.1k (I didn’t mean for it to get this long I swear aldjfsdlfksk)

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 

MASTERLIST

NOTE: HERE IT IS!!! 🥰 Thank you all for showing so much love to Part 1, I seriously wasn’t expecting all the requests for more of the story, so it was fun coming up with ideas! I’m still not sure if I want to do 3 or 4 parts yet, but I’ll let you know soon! In the meantime, I hope you all enjoy reading this second installment! ❤

***

He's been a ghost in my head for four months.

Everywhere I went I could hear his voice, hear the way he whimpered out my name and how cries got higher and higher as I clenched around him. I felt the rough grip he held on my hips as I rode him, the pads of his fingertips leaving behind faint bruises that I currently wished I still had.

And more prominently, I saw his face. It was always in the back of my mind, burning into me with lust-drunk eyes and a pouty mouth in the shape of an O. It sizzled into my brain, the sound definitely sounding more like raindrops than fire, but I was more than okay with that.

Though, every time it rained, I couldn't help but wonder if he felt the same— if he stood outside or watched from the safety of wherever he was and replayed that moment over and over again until he was aching to be in my presence once more.

I also had to wonder if he knew about the ring I'd left in his front seat.

Did he leave it in his car, perhaps in the glovebox or on a string that he tied around his mirror? Or did it fall somewhere between the seats? Maybe he found it and did what I never could, pawning it off for some happily-accepted cash while he laughed at how careless I was to take a stranger's virginity and then leave my expensive diamond ring behind like a fool.

Unfortunately, I didn't have the means to find out.

It's not like I could have wandered up to the FBI building and ask to meet with a Dr. Spencer Reid... Right? Because that as absurd. I'd only met the guy once, and he'd probably think I was crazy for trying to track him down.

It was a whole ordeal that I'd mulled over again and again, and I ultimately decided that it was ridiculous.

If anything I was happy to be rid of the ring. I could move on with my life, and maybe Spencer sold it for money or he's held on to it as a souvenir for a special night.

Win-win.

It didn't dull the small ache I felt for him, though. Every once in a while I found myself remembering how great that night was... I hadn't felt that way—sexy, confident, fun—in a long time, and as much as it sucked that he was getting picked on by some drunk idiots at a bar, I was glad it led me to him.

Some nights, when I was missing him significantly more than usual, I even went back to Waterson's in the event that I'd run into him again, hopefully under better circumstances.

Tonight was one of those nights.

This time I didn't have a ring to keep most of the men from hitting on me, but now that I was well and truly over my ex-husband, I was glad I didn't use that as an excuse to keep the ring around anymore. As annoying and painful as the drunken flirting was, I was way better equipped to handle it and truthfully somewhat relieved that I could get back to normal.

You know, save for the fact that I was only at Waterson's in the first place to maybe see some guy I hooked up with four months ago and still haven't stopped thinking about...

Because that was totally a normal thing to do.

I was on my second beer of the night when I felt a presence behind me. And even though I was pretty sure than I'd be able to tell if it was really Spencer, a part of me still buzzed thinking of the prospect of seeing him here again.

I turned around though, and was met with an entirely different person. I tried not to look disappointed, but it must have shown because the man who'd caught my attention gave a small laugh.

"I'm sorry, are you expecting someone?"

I liked to think that I had a good read on most people, especially when it came to men in bars. This man was someone I looked at for a few seconds and immediately knew that he wasn't looking to make me uncomfortable. He had come over to flirt with me, no doubt, but the difference here was that where most men would have gone straight into it, this man genuinely looked like he was willing to haul ass if I really was waiting for someone and didn't want his company.

That alone made me willing to entertain him a little, even if I was disappointed that he wasn't who I desperately wanted him to be. But it certainly helped that he was attractive.

The first word that came to mind was smooth. Even as I laughed back at the man and answered him, my eyes did some wandering of his figure and admired what I saw. A crisp, tight grey tee shirt that hugged some rather nice muscles, and brown skin that was just a few shades lighter than his eyes, which were kind and a little playful. His smile was stunning, sharing that same playfulness that his eyes held as he practically sparkled to life at my answer.

"Oh, no, I'm not... But I certainly wasn't expecting you..."

I made sure to smile at him, a little smirk that complimented the admiring eyes I was offering him and a little laugh that never failed to get me what I wanted.

He gently leaned into the bar, one of his hands coming to rest of the cool wooden surface. "I'm Derek."

"Y/N."

"Pretty name."

I don't know what made me so bold, but I nodded and shot him a wink. "Not as pretty as you."

We shared another laugh, and then I took a swig of my beer, finishing the last of it and then sliding towards him. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"We just met and you're already stealing from me... That's my line."

"What can I say, I'm quick... Hey, Carla! Can I get two more for me and my friend here?"

The bartender—and my longtime friend—laughed a little, taking my empty bottle. "Sure thing."

The look she gave me right before turning away practically yelled, I thought your type was helpless skinny white guys who can barely look you in the eye without creaming themselves...

Yeah, well, you worked with what you were given. And besides, my type was practically anyone with just a shred of decency.

Real high bar, huh?

But after Patrick, I couldn't complain. Derek seemed like the type of guy who would flirt with you at any given chance, but respected your boundaries all the same. Unfortunately that was hard to find nowadays, especially in bars like Waterson's.

So, yeah, he wasn't the man I was naively wishing to see here tonight, but he was into me, he was decent from what I could tell, and he was hot.

So we had a drink and spent a good twenty minutes chatting it up. Since it was my third beer of the night, I was accumulating a pretty steady buzz, and the longer I talked with Derek the more I opened up a little. I found myself leaning into him and finding excuses to lightly touch his arm, but I kept noticing that he was glancing down at his watch occasionally.

"Are you expecting someone?" I asked, playfully.

"Right, uh... Yeah, I was supposed to be meeting a friend here. He's usually early, but I think we got our times mixed up again..."

"Again, huh? You two aren't very good coordinators?"

Derek laughed, the sound making me feel all warm. "Well, for FBI agents you'd think we'd be better at it."

"O—Oh," I said, my heart stopping for a beat. Had I heard that right? Was I more tipsy than I thought? "FBI?"

"You seem stunned," he said with another laugh. "What, you're not a criminal, are you? Do I have to take you in?"

I laughed, albeit nervously, but decided that this all had to be pure coincidence. If I didn't, I would have gone insane. Even still, it was difficult for me to sit here and openly flirt with this man when I knew he just confessed to having the same profession as the literal man of my dreams— and as of late that also included daydreams.

In fact, I was positive that's what it was when I saw Spencer approach us— a daydream.

Derek was calling my name, I knew that much, but I couldn't do anything but look over his shoulder where Spencer's ghost practically froze in place when he spotted me.

"Y/N?"

That wasn't Derek's voice. Spencer's mouth moved in time with the calling of my name, and it even sounded like him. I blinked rapidly, hoping that I could snap out of it and excuse myself for the rest of the night, so I could go home and sleep it off.

But even when I finished blinking, expecting Spencer's figure to be gone, he was still there.

At this point Derek had turned around, and what he said next snapped me out of it pretty damn good.

"Reid? You know her?"

"You're real," I said, speaking for the first time in a while. My throat felt dry, and my heart came alive at the sight of him.

Spencer stared at me, his eyes softening after I spoke to him. I saw his lips twitch into a shy smile before his hand came up in an equally shy wave. "Y—Yeah, I'm real." What followed was a huffed laugh that cemented his nervousness at seeing me again for the first time in four months, and it was the most refreshing thing I'd heard in a while.

"Oh my God," I said, a smile of my own starting to creep up.

I'd completely forgotten about Derek being there until he spoke up, snapping us out of our reunion, his voice conveying every range of confusion.

"What the hell is this?"

***

I knew there was always a minor chance that I'd run into her again, but it still rendered me utterly still and practically useless when I spotted her across the bar with Derek.

She was just... there. After months of debating whether or not I should send her a letter with the ring mailed back or stopping by to see her, or even using Garcia's help to find where she might have been so I could 'surprise' running into her... It happened to chance that I didn't need any of that at all. Because she was really there.

And she was flirting with Derek.

I'd have been lying if I said that didn't really bother me, but truthfully I'd always felt a bit insecure around him, mostly when it came to being surrounded by women who were most likely fawning over him instead of me.

Not that I particularly wanted or even needed them to fawn over me in the first place... It was just... Telling.

And it's not like I knew or thought I wasn't at least somewhat attractive. But seeing the one and only woman who'd ever made me feel very good about all of that for probably the first time in my whole life openly flirting with my best friend? It stung. It felt like now that she'd seen me and him in the same place, she'd decide that she'd made a mistake before and that she'd be better off with someone else— someone who was stronger and more skilled and probably easier to look at.

Even when the three of us sat at a booth and Y/N decided to sit next to me, her proximity dizzying after all this time apart, the first thought that came to my mind was, She doesn't want to see me. She'd much rather sit across from Derek so she can look at him instead.

I was starting to think maybe I should have stuck to mailing her a letter...

"So... Are you gonna tell me how you two know each other?" Derek asked, leaning back and easily amused.

Y/N seemed to be amused by all of this, too, because she answered immediately, a tone in her voice that I'd only dreamed about for four months and nine days straight.

"Oh, we were engaged."

If I didn't know any better, I would have thought Derek's eyebrows were going to fly straight off his head. "Engaged? Like... Engaged?"

"I—It's not what you think," I jumped in, suddenly a little embarrassed. "Not really engaged, but... Y/N pretended to be my fiancée once... There were, um... There were these guys who wouldn't leave me alone and she came over and told them off."

I hoped he wouldn't piece it together, but it was inevitable, and the look of realization that crossed his features made me feel extra warm with embarrassment.

"Oh... Is she the reason why you actually said yes to that date last month?"

Y/N turned to me, an eyebrow raised. "A date? Because of me? I don't... I don't follow..."

I was going to explain, but Derek beat me to it.

"I've always tried to set Pretty Boy here up for a date, but he's always said no, and then out of the blue I ask him and he agrees. Which was a shock in its own. I knew something was up, something had to have given him the confidence to go on the date... And all along its been you, hasn't it?"

"Well, I... I don't know, I guess so?"

They both looked at me then, and I stared down at my hands, unwilling to look either of them in the eye. "Y—Yeah... I don't know, I guess Y/N just... helped me see something in myself I hadn't seen before."

I half expected them to think it was silly, but Y/N's hand dropped down onto my knee and I stared at it for a moment before flitting my eyes up to meet her gaze. It was soft, and a small smile grazed her pretty features.

"Oh, Spencer, I'm so glad I could do that for you... How was the date?"

"O—Oh, it... It was fine. Not... I'm not seeing her anymore, but it wasn't bad... Just, um... There wasn't much of a connection, that's all."

In simpler words, She wasn't you.

But I couldn't tell her that, not when she was staring at me again with those sparkling eyes and her hand burning a hole through my pants with her electrifying touch, and most certainly not with Derek sitting right in front of us.

"Hey, whether it worked out or not, whatever you did to get him out there, it must have been one hell of a job," he said as if he'd been reading my thoughts.

Y/N gave me a knowing look, though, and suddenly I was transported to my car, feeling her hand explore my body as she showered me with filthy words and names that set me alight and cemented something about myself that I'd never known. Since then I had dreams about her, telling me how much of a 'good little whore' I was for her, and I always woke up from those dreams clutching her ring around my finger.

"Well, like I said, I'm glad I could help. Your boy here is one in a million."

It was awkward. This was all very extremely awkward. And even though I knew that, I still couldn't bring myself to stop it. I couldn't bring myself to stop staring at Y/N, soaking her all up like she was going to leave again at any given second. I couldn't stop thinking about her, our predicament, what we did and what I discovered about myself back then...

God, I was talking like we hadn't seen each other in years. It was only four months and yet I was acting like she'd left me alone after years of being together. This was ridiculous, right?

Thankfully Derek's phone rang, snapping us all out of the bubble of silence we'd been in for what seemed like forever.

"Uh, I'm gonna... get this. Be back in a few."

I expected Y/N to drop whatever act it was she had going on with me after he left the table, but her hand remained firmly on my knee. And then she moved a little closer, turning to me completely and tilting her head with a smile that only meant mischief.

"So... Looks like we have some catching up to do..."

***

I was practically giddy when Derek excused himself for a "Garcia Emergency". Though, I was concerned until he assured us that it wasn't anything bad, and by the look on his face as he quickly talked things over With Spencer, I got the feeling he was expecting his friend to 'have some fun' tonight. And that's what truly made me giddy.

We sat close to each other again, a few drinks between us and only a few booths away from the one we sat in the first time we met. If it weren't for the rock missing from my finger, I would have been convinced we'd actually transported back to that exact moment.

"You getting Deja vu, Doctor?" I asked with a smile, watching as he swallowed.

"Y—Yeah, kinda. It's great seeing you again, I... I really didn't think I would."

I laughed. "You know where I live, and you're an FBI agent... I'm pretty sure you could have saw me again if you wanted to."

"Well... Yeah, but I didn't want to be creepy or anything..."

"Trust me... If you randomly showed up at my door, I'd be anything but creeped out. I missed you..."

Spencer looked up at me for a moment, his eyes shifting before he seemed to relax. "You... did?"

"Of course... I haven't stopped thinking about you since we met. And I hope that's not creepy," I added in a laugh.

"No, not at all," he reassured with a nervous laugh of his own. "Actually, um... I've been thinking about you a lot, too..."

"Even on your date?"

I'd only meant it as a little joke, maybe another conversation starter, but at the mention he seemed... embarrassed.

"Oh, no, that was... That wasn't really... I—I only really did it to get Derek off my back, it—"

I rested a hand on his arm and smiled gently. "Hey, it's alright... I didn't really mean anything by that, I'm just... I meant it before, I'm really glad you did it. I know you said it didn't really work out, but did you have some fun at least?"

He laughed again, but this time there was hardly any humor in it. "Well, she wasn't you..."

I smiled a bit, but immediately following his words was a wide-eyed terror and instant regret. "Oh, I didn't... I'm sorry, I—"

"So, you did think about me on your date, huh?"

He froze then, presumably at the low, seductive drawl I blanketed over my words. His mouth slightly hung open, tongue flittering behind teeth as he tried to find the right words.

I smiled at him, and then he settled on, "Yeah. I did."

"It's not very polite to think of other girls while you're on a date, you know..." I made sure to let him know I was only teasing, and that I just wanted to know what his reaction would be.

Still, he surprised me when he said, "It's not my fault you're impossible to forget..."

He flashed me a smile then, and my stomach twisted deliciously at the little dash of confidence he'd grown in the past minute.

Maybe I could bring more out of him...

"Okay, fair... But it is your fault that you didn't come find me."

"Also fair... But... You're here now..."

Spencer inched closer to me, and I smiled, taking my bottom lip gently between my teeth before leaning in, too. "How about that..."

Our lips brushed for a second, so gentle it was like being tickled by a feather, and then he spoke again, his breath hot on my mouth. "I've... dreamt about seeing you again for so long now... Kissing you..."

"Me, too," I responded, bringing a hand down to graze the inside of his thigh. "Guess it's a good thing I'm a firm believer that dreams come true."

"Yeah," is all he said before he finally took the initiative to finally kiss me.

I sighed, melting into his touch and tightening the grip I had on his leg. Meanwhile his hands rested at my forearms, fingers dancing experimentally over my skin and making me tingle in their wake. And once I parted my lips, he took his shot and gently brought his tongue out to meet mine in a collision that quite frankly made me throb.

He'd been a decent kisser before, but... It's obvious he's had a little practice since then. Not that I'd have minded either way, but damn if this newfound experience didn't give me the most sinful idea.

I felt him whine as I pulled away, and that made everything even better.

"You wanna get out of here?" I said in the cheesiest way possible. But he didn't seem to mind.

In fact, he nodded rapidly and took a quick drink of his beer before following me out of the booth and towards the door.

***

Leading Spencer up and through the doorway of my house was probably the most electrifying 'date' experience I've had... well, ever. I'd been excited to sleep with people, sure, but with Spencer I found something greater. I wasn't entirely sure what that was, yet, but it was definitely good.

He reiterated that thought nicely once the door was closed and his hands were on my face, bringing my mouth to his again while I dropped by keys and haphazardly threw my phone and wallet on the side-table next to us in favor of gripping his shirt.

Just through his kisses I could tell how much he'd longed for this moment. I know he told me, and I'd certainly understood the feeling, but when it came down to actually acting it out in the flesh, I was much more in favor of that method of communication.

I gladly accepted his wordless confessions, through every groan and gentle graze of his tongue that he offered to me. And in return I gave him sharp tugs of his shirt and hair, conveying my urgency and the need to be closer to him.

When my legs started moving, his did, too, and we reluctantly pulled apart in favor of not tripping up the hard wooden staircase on the way to my bedroom. Though, I was thankful he was in just as much of a rush as I was, because otherwise I probably would have gotten embarrassed.

And that didn't happen easily.

I fumbled for the light switch once the door shut and our mouths connected once again, and I could have sworn it was like something out of a trashy TV show. The thought almost made me laugh, but I held it in in favor of moaning when Spencer lowered his hands to my ass and squeezed, pulling us closer together. I finally hit the light switch and then flow both of my arms to wrap around his neck and draw him even closer.

He was everywhere all at once, and it fueled me. I'd come to miss physical human interaction, but I hadn't realized how badly I craved it until he was right there, taking up all of my personal space and aiding me in creating this perfect recipe of frantic, glorious electricity.

It was going to kill me, and I would have gladly let it.

I experimentally rolled my hips forward and felt him gasp into me, and it wasn't long before he started growing hard.

Good... Now I could set the plan in motion.

"Remember what you told me?" I asked breathlessly before our heads switched sides and leaned in for more kisses.

In between them, he returned, "When?"

"The first time we met..." I trailed my lips down the column of his throat as I continued. "When you said you edged yourself..."

"O—Oh... Yeah, I remember."

"Mmm," I hummed, sucking a mark into his neck for the time being. As I did it, the grip he held on my ass tightened a bit, and I laughed lightly over his skin, slowly licking my way up to his ear. "I wanna see..."

The trembling he provided under my influence was a good sign. And then another came when he whispered. "Y—You want to see... me? Touching myself?"

"Mhmm..." I planted kisses all along his jaw before pulling back to look him in the eye, making sure he knew I was serious when I told him, "But only if that's okay with you."

He didn't even take a second to think, nodding rapidly once more and giving me a flash of a smile. "It's okay."

I hummed happily, leaning forward to give him one huge kiss, long and hard, before pulling away from him completely and nodding towards the bed. "Clothes off..."

Our hands got to work as soon as the words left my mouth.

And it wasn't until my shirt was on the ground and Spencer's eyes remained glued to my chest with trembling hands that I realized, even though we'd slept together before, our clothes had never actually come off. Tonight we were completely baring ourselves to each other, and that was somehow more intimate than the idea of taking his virginity was.

I reached out and grabbed his shirt, gently assisting him in removing it, and it must have snapped him out of wherever he'd gotten trapped because he shook his head and let out a nervous laugh, averting his eyes from me and staring at the ground.

"S–Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for," I reassured, throwing his shirt to the ground next to mine and bringing his hands to rest on my bare stomach, slowly sliding them up. "I like when you look at me..."

His eyes reached mine once again, breath hitching as I guided his hands to cup my breasts over the bra. "Well, I... I like looking at you."

I kissed him again, hoping to bring forth some familiarity to our current routine, and it worked like a charm. Our movements were slow and steady, each article of clothing joining the floor one by one until we were down to nothing but my underwear.

I led him to the bed then, breaking us apart and making him sit. Now that I was taller than him, I gripped his chin in my hand and tilted his head up to look at me.

"Lay back for me?"

He scooted further along the bed until finally he leaned back, his head resting nicely on my pillows. I climbed up after him, kneeling at his feet and bringing a hand down trace lines along the inside of his thigh. Meanwhile I looked him up and down, finally getting a decent look at his full, bare form.

"Ohh, so pretty... And I bet you're even prettier when you're touching yourself... You wanna start?"

He reached out for his dick in answer, wrapping a delicate hand around it and slowly stroking up and down as he looked up at me with the stars in his eyes. "Like this?"

"However you normally do it, baby. Just relax. Make yourself feel good..."

After a slight nod, his hand picked up a little speed. He swiped his thumb over the tip to gather some precum for lubrication, but as hot as that was, I had a better idea.

"Here, let me help," I offered with a smile, leaning down and bracing my hands on his knees. I let spit gather on the end of my tongue before allowing it to drip down and land right on the tip of his cock. The sound he let out, broken and dripping with want, sent a jolt of electricity through my blood, only amplified by how wet he sounded once he started moving his hand again.

I let my eyes roam all over, taking in every heave of his chest, the veins in his arm and hand as he worked himself, the soft fluttering of his eyes as he lost himself in the moment... At the risk of sounding absolutely cheesy, it truly was a magical sight. I felt entirely lucky that I got to see him again at all, and now like this, bare and vulnerable and exuding lust while I was left to my own devices.

All that to say, I hadn't realized I was touching myself as well, until a whimper came from my mouth, my clit gently throbbing with stimulation at the hands of... well, my hand.

Upon seeing me, Spencer let out a whine of his own, picking up speed with his hand and throwing his head back onto the pillow.

"Y/N..."

He wasn't addressing me, wasn't asking me anything at all... My name on his lips was more of a declaration, like some type of chant, a string of letters and syllables formed specifically to bring him closer to the edge he knew he'd have to resist falling from.

"You getting there, baby?"

"U—Uh huh..."

"You better hold it," I drawled lowly, bringing myself into the more strict persona I wanted to bring out tonight, given that's still something he was into. "Just like you promised."

After a few more hard strokes of his hand, Spencer leg to quickly, bringing his hand to rest on his chest as his mouth let out the most delicious whines and grunts of determination to keep it all in. Without the stimulation, I noticed his dick slightly twitching over his stomach, glistening and  hard...

Fuck, if it wasn't the hottest fucking thing I'd ever experienced with my own eyes and ears...

I pulled my hand out of my underwear, too, still a little shocked that I hadn't realized before that I was doing it to myself and a little turned on at the fact that it had that big of an effect on him.

"I—I would have been able to go longer, but... But you were there, and you were... And I only ever have you in my head, not right in front of me..."

It was obvious that he was probably afraid he'd let me down somehow, and that was definitely not the case. So I leaned down and dragged my hands over his lower stomach, feeling inch of skin while my mouth came down to press featherlight kisses to the base of his dick. "Spence, that was hot as fuck... You really think of me when you do that?"

"Mhm," is all he offered, currently reveling in the way my tongue darted out to explore the lines of his cock.

"I think of you, too," I admitted, pausing to press a kiss to the underside of his tip. "When I touch myself... I think about how pretty you were the first time I called you a slut... Tell me, baby, you still like that?"

"God, Y/N, yes..."

I sucked gently on his tip now, watching as he watched me, his bottom lip occupied between his teeth and his eyes on the brink of closing.

He was getting close again. So I stopped, pulling off of him with a soft pop and smiling as I crawled up his body and planted a kiss to his cheek. My legs straddled his hips, and I got close to his ear.

"Tell me, what about this... other girl you went on a date with... Did you sleep with her?"

"Um... Y—yes..."

"I'm willing to bet she didn't make you feel half as good as I do..."

"She didn't..."

I smiled against his jaw, bringing one of my hands to stroke his hair. "Was she mean to you? Did she make you her dirty little whore?"

I could feel him let out a trembling breath as he answered, "No."

"That's right," I said softly, right before switching gears and tugging on his hair, pulling back to look in his eyes. "Because you're my dirty little whore."

His cock twitched along my ass at my words, and it made me smile. But before I could speak again, he did it first.

"I'm all yours, Y/N... No one else's..."

I couldn't help it then. His words, our position, the needy look in his eyes as he confessed this to me... All of it was enough to make me snap.

So I leaned in and kissed him, hard. My hands tangled in his hair while his flew to my waist, sliding down to play with the hem of my underwear as his tongue slipped into my mouth and against my own with ease. I swallowed each whine with the greatest pleasure, my hips involuntarily grinding down and spreading the evidence of my arousal along the fabric of my panties. I wondered then if he could feel how wet I was, how much I wanted him.

I didn't have to wonder for long though, because he slipped one of his hands around front and dipped into said fabric, finding how wet I was and groaning into my mouth at the feel of it.

"You've been dying to get another try at this pussy, haven't you?" I whispered into his mouth.

Unsurprisingly, I was met with a whine in return. "Uh huh... I missed you so much..."

I ground down into his hand, nipping at his lips a little before giving my next demand.

"Then prove it."

Rather than fingering me like I expected him to, Spencer rolled over and straddled my legs, tearing my panties down and leaving me with a smile.

"I love the confidence you've grown, baby boy... Proves how dedicated you are... to being the best little slut you can be."

"Yes, Y/N," he responded, leaning down and kissing the inside of my thigh. "I wanna be good for you... Let me show you, please..."

"Show me..."

His tongue came in contact with my pussy, and it immediately sent my head flying back into the pillows, a low whine escaping my throat. He flicked it over my clit expertly a few times before going down and licking a broad strip up the entire area. Vibrations flittered along his path through his groans, and just hearing how much he enjoyed it had me clenching the sheets for stability.

"Ohh, what a good boy," I praised, bringing one of my hands to stroke his hair back. "Who's my good little whore?"

He grumbled into me, but I tugged at his hair.

"Say it."

He pulled away briefly then, still in contact with my pussy as he breathed out, "I'm your good little whore..." And then he promptly got back to work, devouring me with a hungry precision that made me laugh.

"Needy, too, I see... So desperate for that cunt..."

"Yes, " I heard him mumble into me. He repeated it a few more times, chanting it as his tongue flicked through me and tasted every last drop of my impending orgasm.

I sat up a little and held his head to me, his tongue moving at a quicker, more relentless pace. My stomach started to twist and my legs clenched, holding Spencer firmly between my legs as my hips rolled forward and met his every movement. Moans fell sweetly off my lips with every second, getting higher and higher until I finally held myself still and let the high take over. His tongue drew out one of the sharpest orgasms I'd ever had, the fervor he delivered making me see stars for a solid twenty to thirty seconds before it finally subsided and my muscles started to relax.

"Fuck," I breathed, almost whining when he removed his mouth from me and just kneeled there, studying my form as I tried to catch my breath. "Get up here," I asked more than demanded, though it might have been hard to tell what with my head spinning.

Spencer climbed over my body and I pulled his face down into a warm, wet kiss that had me tasting myself and growing wet again at the taste. I pulled away then, looking into his eyes and playing with his hair.

"I can't believe you didn't come see me sooner... Depriving me of that pretty fucking mouth..."

He kissed me again briefly, whining into my mouth before I continued. "But no... You were busy going on dates..."

"I'm sorry, Y/N," he said, kissing my cheek softly, over and over as his lips made their way down to my neck. "I'm so sorry, I... I wanted to see you, I just..."

"I know, I know," I cooed, closing my eyes and relishing in the feel of his lips on my skin. "But tonight you're gonna make up for lost time, got it?"

"Yes... Yes, I'll do whatever you want..."

I hummed, bringing his head back up to meet his gaze, and my thumb stroked over his bottom lip. "I want you to put that pretty cock to good use and fuck me like the desperate little slut I know you are..."

I kissed him then, gasping out once he shifted his hips and entered me slowly— I knew he was going to get to it quickly, but I guess I'd underestimated his need to please me.

The sentiment had me curling with want, more of it coming when he bottomed out inside me and trembled. Really, I could feel him shaking as he started to pull out and then back in, setting a steady pace that would surely become more erratic once I started talking to him again.

"Shit..." Spencer cursed, shifting up on his arms for more leverage as he steadily drilled into me. "I m—missed this... Missed you..."

"I know, baby, I know... I missed you, too... And you know what else?"

I drifted one of my hands down in between us, spreading out my fingers so that his cock fit nicely between them as he fucked me. The added friction of my fingers had him whining out, dropping his head down so that his ear was right by my mouth.

I whispered. "So did my pussy... So you better fuck her good..."

The sudden brutal velocity in which he slammed his hips against mine felt like a strike of lightning, and the loud groan he let out against my neck was the thunder. Everything shifted then, Spencer lifting himself up and holding onto my legs as he drilled into me at full force, his body glistening with exertion and my own succumbing to his wind.

"Yeah, that's it," I cooed through a laugh of pure pride. "That's a good fucking whore... Giving me that cock like I own it..."

"Y—You... do," he stuttered through a broken whine. He was getting close again, and I knew just the thing to do the trick.

I reached my hand up to hold his neck, not applying any pressure, but just holding as I forced his eyes down to look at me. "That's right... That slutty cock is mine... Now give it to me..."

The end of my sentence was punctuated with a sharp cry out as another orgasm tore through me. I shouted Spencer's name into the abyss as He fucked me through it and started twitching inside me, signaling his end as well. And the added warmth from his cum as it coated my insides well and truly marked me as his, despite the words we'd just exchanged.

I belonged to him just as much as he did to me, and I wondered if he knew that. If he knew just how much he inhabited my every thought.

I wanted him to know that I was practically infatuated with him.

But that conversation could wait until after we were... settled down.

He was still inside me as he slumped forward, laying his head on my chest and rubbing lines into my forearm.

"You okay?" I asked gently, combing through his hair with my fingers.

"Most definitely... Just... tired."

I smiled, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "You're welcome to stay here for the night..."

He was silent for a long while, almost so long that I thought he'd actually fallen asleep. But then he said, "Right here? With you?" and my heart soared.

"Of course."

Truthfully, I'd have let him stay forever.

But when I opened my eyes the next morning, the other side of the bed was cold, and his body was nowhere to be found.

***

Dear Y/N,

I'm sorry for leaving you alone last week. I know you must be a little hurt and confused, but if you aren't, then just forget I ever said anything.

Nonetheless, I regretted leaving you behind last time without at the very least sending you a letter, so I hope this one finds you well. After all, you have shown me experiences I never could have imagined enjoying as much as I did, so I should thank you for that.

But that's not all that this letter is for.

I also want to invite you out to dinner some time. I know this might be a little unconventional, but given how we met and also how we reunited, I figured this would be a fun, romantic way to ask you out. I understand if you don't feel that way given that I've more or less abandoned you twice now, but I promise it was all for good reason.

If you'd like to talk more, about anything I've disclosed in this letter, I've attached my phone number below, otherwise I'd love to hear back from you. I know this sounds strange, but I've been dying to know what your handwriting looks like. I bet it's pretty, like you.

Once again, I am truly sorry for leaving you behind without a word, but I want a chance to make it up to you. Please say you'll reach out. Otherwise, I know where to find you if you'd rather I make some cheesy romantic comedy—esque gesture of affection that either makes you fall in love with me or hate me.

Yours, Spencer Reid

***

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[fruitcoops]

Hi this might be just because it's passover and I'm really feeling my heritage (and GOOD food) but could you write a fic possibly with Jewish Finn O'Hara?? (And Leo making him our food b/c it's so important to the culture) Or you can make any other character (it's hard cuz they all do xmas lol but i could see re or even kasey) who you feel could be Jewish I just LOVE your fics and I was hoping you could maybe represent my pride for my culture in one of our beloved characters :)

Yes I can!! Happy Pesach to all my wonderful Jewish followers <3 I will forever be jealous of your holiday foods! SW credit goes to @lumosinlove

Finn took two steps in the door, then paused. He inhaled deeply, paying special attention to exactly what that fantastic smell was as he toed his shoes off. “Butter? Is that you?”

“In the kitchen,” Leo called back. On the couch, Finn caught the edge of Logan’s smile before it was hidden behind his book.

He rocked slightly on the balls of his feet. “Are you making what I think you’re making?”

“That depends, what do you think I’m making?” There was a tease to Leo’s voice and Finn’s heart leaped; he skidded a little on the linoleum of their floor as he hurried into the kitchen and heard Logan laugh behind him.

On the stove, oil snapped and hissed while Leo prodded the bits of potato that flaked off the patties. He tapped Finn’s forearm as he hugged him from behind. “Don’t get too close, Fish.”

Finn snorted. “Are you kidding? This ain’t my first rodeo, pardner.”

Leo laughed at his terrible accent, then again at the smacking kiss to his cheek. “Well, I hope they’re alright. I totally forgot to ask your mom for her recipe, so this is a mashup of Bliz, Talker, and Re’s tips, plus whatever we had in the pantry.”

“You made me latkes,” Finn hummed, so happy he could burst. He gave Leo a quick squeeze and nuzzled his face against his neck, listening to the familiar sizzle as he added new potato cakes. “I didn’t know Remus is Jewish.”

“His dad is, so they celebrate both sets of holidays.” Leo shrugged. “I only texted Talker, actually. The other two just messaged me out of the blue with, like, a million suggestions.”

“We should have had them over for Seder.”

“Sorry, love.”

“ ‘s alright. Maybe next year.” Finn inched his hand toward the plate of latkes, only for Leo to gently smack it with his spatula. “Hey!”

“You’re gonna burn yourself!”

“I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again, especially for a worthy cause.” Finn kissed him again before scooting a steaming cake from the pile and popping the whole thing in his mouth; he pulled a face at the heat and Leo shook his head.

“Told you so.”

“Don’t tell my mother,” he mumbled, relishing in the crunch of the crisp outside layer. “Oh, fuck me, these are good. Lo, c’mere!”

Logan slid into the kitchen in his socks mere seconds later with a wide smile. “I get to try one?”

“No,” Leo groaned. “They’re not done!”

“My holiday, my latkes, my rules,” Finn declared as he reached for another.

Leo huffed a long-suffering—and incredibly fond—sigh, then pushed the plate closer to them. “Whatever.”

Logan stood on his toes to kiss his cheek before snatching a latke and carefully biting into one side, cupping his hand under to catch the inevitable crumbs. “Just shove it in, baby,” Finn advised around his second cake.

Both his boys raised their eyebrows at him; Leo broke first with a devilish grin. “Yeah, I bet you’d like that.”

“Alright, you know what—”

“Watch the oil!” Logan blurted as a particularly large bubble popped and sent a few tiny droplets over their kitchen. Leo made a sad noise when he looked down at his spattered shirt and Finn rubbed his arm in sympathy.

“That’s why you don’t wear nice clothes while you cook, Butter.”

“Do you think the Tide stick will get it out?”

“We can give it shot,” Logan assured him, though he sounded rather skeptical.

A tinkling alarm went off over the sounds of the oil and Leo immediately perked up, shooing them out of the way as he grabbed an oven mitt. Finn’s heart clenched. “You made more food?”

Leo leveled him with a stare drier than the Sahara. “No, honey, I made potato pancakes and nothing else.”

The scent of roast chicken and vegetables billowed throughout their apartment and Finn couldn’t help but grin, feeling the familiar warmth seep into his bones. The whole place would smell good for days. “He remembered to get the recipe for this part,” Logan whispered, wrapping his arms around Finn’s waist from the side wile Leo pulled the pan out and cut the sweet potatoes open.

“It smells like home,” Finn managed, leaning his temple on Logan’s soft hair. “Alex would fucking love this.”

Logan snapped his fingers, then reached over to the counter and handed Finn his phone, swiping to his most recent texts. “Actually, I think Bliz and Nat have that under control.”

Something hot prickled at the corners of Finn’s eyes when he saw the picture—Alex glowed with happiness, sandwiched between Kasey and Natalie with a bright grin on his face as the three of them held up their bowls of soup. The matzo balls inside were a little wonky, but otherwise looked delicious, just as they had when Alex and Finn made them as kids.

“Oh, honey,” Leo said quietly as Finn swiped the first tear off his cheek. He closed the distance between them and joined the hug, kissing the top of Finn’s forehead.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” he sniffled. “I’m just so happy and I love you both so much. Fuck, Leo, you made me latkes.”

“Did they taste okay? I know it was kind of a Franken-recipe.”

Finn pulled back and reached up to cradle Leo’s soft cheeks in his hands, looking straight into his eyes. “Leo, they were perfect.”

“Happy Pesach,” Logan murmured, snuggling against him.

Finn barely held back a wince. “Pesach, Lo.”

“What?”

“You gotta—” He stifled his laugh with his hand. “There’s emphasis on the first syllable, then a ‘k’ sound.”

Logan licked his lips. “Pesach?”

“You sound so fucking French, oh my god.” He turned back to Leo with a smug smile. “You can’t make fun of me for how I saw ‘beignets’ after this.”

Leo barked a laugh, short and sharp. “Oh, yes I can. Watch it, Harzy, or you can kiss your latkes goodbye.”

“Joke’s on you, I know there are more at Loops’ house right now.” Finn propped his chin on Logan’s head and batted his eyelashes. “Besides, you have to be nice to me today. This is like my second birthday.”

“You can’t keep claiming things are your birthday!” Logan protested, wiggling away from his grip. “First it was Saint Patrick’s Day, then Hanukkah, and now this?”

“I have lots of birthdays,” Finn said solemnly.

Leo rolled his eyes. “Happy Pesach to the man of many birthdays. Can we at least eat before the chicken gets cold? I don’t want to beg food off Talker and his sisters tonight. My pride can’t handle it.”

“You have two boyfriends and a snazzy rainbow bracelet,” Finn scoffed playfully as he grabbed forks out of their utensil drawer. “That’s plenty of pride in my book.”

[flowerfan2]

One Night in Milwaukee - Ch. 6

(Now with my new cover art...)

David x Patrick, 2700 words this chapter (A03) 18k so far.  Read from the beginning here.

Summary:  Being stuck in the Milwaukee airport is bad enough. Then David realizes that the man who broke his heart is sitting right next to him.  After a rom-com worthy reunion, David and Patrick decide to give it another try.

Chapter 6

There’s a new lightness in the air as they settle back inside the house, David kicking back on the couch while Patrick pokes around in the kitchen.  He really does need to make a list and do a real grocery run – although he appreciates David’s efforts to save him the trouble.

David grumbles at his phone and stands up.  “Do you mind if I deal with this?  There’s a problem with a supplier, it’ll go faster if I just talk to her instead of sending endless e-mails.”

“Of course not, go ahead.”

Patrick watches David head back towards the bedroom, his phone already up to his ear.  Patrick’s glad that David is still involved with Rose Apothecary, even if it’s not what it used to be.  At least it means that some part of what they created together survived.

Patrick heard about what happened with the store itself from Stevie, how David relocated it near Toronto, but eventually closed down the physical location.  Stevie told Patrick that David’s heart didn’t seem to be in it anymore, but now that Patrick knows that David was depressed, he wonders how much Stevie knew.  Patrick wouldn’t have been able to do it, either – have the store, but not David.  It was always about the two of them together, left brain and right brain working in tandem.  If he had to run Rose Apothecary by himself, it would definitely have lost its heart.

Patrick finishes up the grocery list, the act of neatly putting down everything he needs soothing in its own right, and sits down on the couch with a glass of water.  He’s tired, again.  It seems like he can’t go ten minutes without wanting to lie down.  It’s been a week since he was hurt, and he thought he’d feel better by now.

Patrick remembers David scolding him, on the plane, for traveling so soon.  He probably has a point, but if Patrick hadn’t decided to get out of town, he wouldn’t have run into David, and that’s worth a lot more than sore ribs.

He leans back on the couch and closes his eyes, wincing as his muscles relax.  If he concentrates, he can hear David’s voice as he talks on the phone, the cadence familiar and reassuring.

Patrick wakes up to the tantalizing aroma of garlic sizzling in a pan.  He grabs his phone, dismayed to find that it’s almost six o’clock, the whole afternoon having gone by while he napped on the couch.

“Hey there,” David says, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek.  “You’re up just in time.  Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes or so, I was just getting ready to heat the water.

Patrick reaches for David, and David’s face lights up as he sinks onto the couch next to him and pulls him into a hug.  “Hi,” Patrick says, still half-asleep.  It feels too easy, to have David right here with him, to be breathing into his shoulder like nothing ever went wrong.

“Hi,” David responds, rubbing his palms over Patrick’s back.  “Have a good nap?”

“Sorry I slept so much.”  He almost resents missing the time with David.  Time with David is far more interesting than sleeping.

“Not a problem,” David says.  “Gave me the chance to take the Camry out for another spin.”

“Ugh, you did the shopping again?”  

“I did, and thanks, by the way, for the detailed list.  Although I’m not sure that you needed to specify back-ups for each of the items. I’m pretty sure I could figure out what brand of tomato sauce to buy if your top choice wasn’t available.”

“That list wasn’t meant for you,” Patrick grumbles.  “I just like having a plan.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.”  David kisses Patrick again, and stands up despite Patrick’s grabby hands.  It feels so good to have David close to him, he doesn’t want to let go. “You go freshen up while I finish, if I don’t get the water going it’ll be forever until we can eat.”

Patrick uses the bathroom and puts some after-sun lotion on his face, where a bit of color is just appearing on his nose and cheeks.  It doesn’t take much.  He needs to remember to use sunscreen down here, or else he’s going to turn into a lobster.

When he comes out, David is working on the Bolognese, and there’s a large pot of water heating on the stove.  

“That smells great,” Patrick says, leaning around David to check out the sauce.  He lets his hand linger on David’s waist.  David has put on a pair of his own black jeans, but he’s still wearing Patrick’s dark green t-shirt from this morning.  It stretches enticingly across David’s shoulders as he stirs the pot.

“You still like this, right?”  David asks.  “You haven’t become a vegetarian, or anything like that?”

Patrick laughs.  “If didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have put the ingredients on the list.”  

David has set out dishes and silverware on the kitchen island where they had their breakfast.  The room also has a small round table, but it’s covered in piles of all the junk mail that has been delivered since his parents were last here, and the groceries David bought this afternoon.

There’s a bottle of wine there too, the one Patrick had listed as his top choice on the list he made earlier.  It’s an easy to drink table red that he remembered being able to buy when he was visiting his parents last winter, with a very high class screw top.  He thinks David will like it, and it will pair well with the tomato sauce.

Patrick opens the bottle and searches around in the cabinets for two matching wine glasses.

“Oh, um, none for me, thanks,” David says as Patrick sets the two glasses down next to their plates.

“You sure?  It’s not fancy, but it’s not as bad as Herb’s fruit wine, either.”  Patrick is surprised, but not particularly so, not until he turns and sees the deer-in-headlights look on David’s face.  “David?  You okay?”

“What?  Oh, yeah.  It’s fine.”

Patrick watches David as he slowly empties the box of pasta into the boiling water, giving the task quite a bit more attention than it needs.  Deciding not to push, he screws the cap back on the bottle of red and puts it down on the table, and exchanges the wine glasses for water glasses.

David turns to him, his face scrunched up and pained.  “You can have wine.”

“Nah, it’s okay.”

“No, I mean, just because I’m not having any, it’s okay if you do.”  

“I get that, thanks.”

David shakes his head.  “So why did you put the wine away?”

“It’s not as much fun if it’s just me.”  Patrick realizes that this might not be the best thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth, but he can’t quite figure out how to fix it.  

After a few moments of awkward silence, David speaks up, keeping his eyes on the stove.  “I’m not an alcoholic.  And I’m not going to fall off the wagon if there’s a glass of wine in my vicinity.”

Patrick thinks back to the many evenings they spent curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, whether something cheap from Brebner’s or a reserve vintage they nabbed from the store.  He’s never known David to have a problem with alcohol.  Between the two of them, Patrick was the lightweight, and much more likely to get tipsy.  Clearly there has to be a reason for David’s decision to abstain, whether it qualifies as alcoholism or not, but given how nervous David looks, Patrick wants to tread lightly.

“You can tell me as little or as much as you want to about why you’re not drinking, David.  It’s okay no matter what the reason.”

Patrick’s standing close enough to David that he can see him swallowing hard, trying to keep his composure.  The last thing he wants is to send them off the rails into another emotional meltdown.  David clearly feels put on the spot, and that’s not what he meant to do.  He certainly doesn’t want David to feel like he’s being judged.  It would be the worst kind of hypocrisy at this point.

Patrick clears his throat a little, not sure how to launch this discission, but then decides to jump right in.  “You know, the night I was attacked, with Jamie, I was hammered.  Wasted.  I made some bad decisions that I probably wouldn’t have made if I was sober.”

David steps away from the pot of boiling water and stares at Patrick.  “What are you talking about?”

Patrick recognizes David’s “I need a minute to catch up” phrase, and understands.  He wishes he could have found a way to work this into conversation more smoothly, but there is a connection, and he needs to get it out.  However he goes at it, the explanation is a rough one, and Patrick’s been stumbling over it in his own mind for a week now.  At least if he manages to spit it out, he might be able to come to terms with it.

“My aunt had asked me to get together with Jamie to check in on him, saying he was having a hard time at university.  But really she was asking Jamie to check in on me.  I wasn’t doing well – I hadn’t found a new job, wasn’t even really looking, and I was pretty miserable.  So I let Jamie convince me that going out with him and his college friends was a good look for a thirty-something guy, and I sat at the bar all night and drank tequila shots.”

“But you don’t even like tequila,” David says, breathless.

“No, I don’t.  It’s disgusting.”

“It is.” David nods sympathetically. He takes Patrick by the arm and pulls him out of the kitchen, sitting him down on the couch and letting his hands rest on his shoulders.  “Okay.  Tell me the rest.”

Patrick is almost thankful that David won’t let him end the story there.  It’s time to get it out.  “Jamie was flirting with another guy, some other kids started talking shit, and I got up to intervene, thinking I would save the day and defend him.  I imagined myself some kind of hero.  But I was so drunk, whatever I was saying was just making it worse.  I wasn’t being clever, I was just being loud and aggressive.  Jamie dragged me outside, trying to avoid trouble.  But the asshole kids followed us out, and that’s when it got physical.”

“Patrick.”  David’s eyes are wide, and he stares at Patrick for a long moment, then pulls him into his arms.  “I’m so sorry,” David says, holding him tight.  “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry too,” Patrick says.  “It’s fucking embarrassing.”

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong-”

“I kind of did,” Patrick corrects him, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his face into David’s hair.  “I’m not blaming the victim here, but this was more your run-of-the-mill bar fight than a hate crime.  I was blitzed off my ass, I said some stupid stuff to some hyped-up kids practically half my age, and I got beat up.”

“You only got in a fight because you were defending your cousin,” David says.  “Who was the target of homophobic animals.”

“I’ll accept 90% bar fight, 10% hate crime,” Patrick says, sinking into David’s embrace.

“At least fifty-fifty.”  David’s big hand is holding Patrick’s head against his own.  Patrick shifts a little, and then he’s sitting in David’s lap, surrounded by David’s arms, his scent, his breath.

“I feel like an idiot,” Patrick says softly, and David shakes his head in denial.  

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Wouldn’t you be embarrassed if you got yourself into that situation?”  Patrick asks.

David rubs his hands up and down Patrick’s back, and his sore muscles twinge, but Patrick doesn’t pull away.  It feels too good to be wrapped up in David like this.  “Maybe a little.  But they <i>assaulted</i> you.  No matter what you said to them, that’s criminal.”  David turns his face and his nose presses into Patrick’s hair.  “Did you talk to the police?  Do you want to talk to our lawyer?  Now that my family has money again, she’s returning our calls.”

“No, I reported it, the guy who kicked me is probably pleading out.  I didn’t want to have to deal with it.”

“And so you booked a flight to Florida.”

“I did.”

The timer on the stove goes off and they both jump, Patrick regretting it instantly as his ribs protest.

“Oh, god, sorry, are you okay?” David babbles, his hands reaching to steady Patrick as they untangle themselves.

“I’m fine,” Patrick says with a smile.  He gives David’s hand a squeeze and then they make their way into the kitchen to deal with their dinner, Patrick searching for a strainer for the pasta as David turns off the heat.  They work together easily, plating their food and digging in, and their conversation returns to mundane things like whether Patrick’s version of Bolognese is appropriate even though it’s made with ground beef, and why flat pasta tastes better than round pasta.  

They’ve finished loading the dishwasher and putting away their leftovers when David stops wiping the counter and turns to Patrick, one hand on his hip.  “So, you don’t care if I don’t drink?”  David’s face is studiously neutral, but Patrick can tell he’s nervous about Patrick’s answer.

“Nope.  I really don’t.  It’d be good for me to stop, too.  At least for a while.”

David holds Patrick’s gaze, and for a moment Patrick thinks he’s going to argue, but then he just nods.  “Okay.”

“Okay.”

They migrate to the couch, and David turns on another cooking show (this one has the contestants running through a grocery store to find their ingredients, and it makes Patrick think about David at the nearby supermarket this afternoon, patiently going through Patrick’s ridiculously detailed list to find the 15 oz cans of organic, fire-roasted petite diced tomatoes), and before he knows it Patrick is nodding off.

“Hey.”

Patrick opens his eyes, finding David looking at him from the other end of the couch.

“Want to go to bed?”

Patrick squints to see the time on the clock in the kitchen.  “It’s not even nine.”

David shrugs.  “So?”  He stands up and holds out his hand.  “I’m open to an early night.”

It should bother him, this coddling from David, but it doesn’t.  After he got beat up, Patrick had quickly turned away his parents’ suggestion that he come home to recuperate.  At the time he was too upset about where he had ended up – alone, unemployed, and frankly feeling like an idiot for having let his life turn into such a mess – to let his family take care of him.  He can’t believe it was only a week ago.  And it was only forty-eight hours ago that he ran into David in the Milwaukee airport.  It’s crazy how quickly everything has changed.

Patrick takes David’s hand and lets him help him up off the couch.  He leans into David and tucks his face in the crook of his neck, and David hums reassurance and pats his shoulders.  David smells like garlic and onions and Rose Apothecary body milk, and Patrick wants to stay here forever.

“Sorry, you’ll fall asleep on your feet, and that won’t work for either of us,” David says, and Patrick realizes he must have said that last bit out loud that.  No harm done, it seems.

They take turns in the bathroom, and get changed into sleep clothes, David wearing the same striped t-shirt Patrick remembers from way back at Ray’s house.  “Okay if I read for a while?” David asks, propping a pillow behind himself.  He blinks at Patrick, his dark lashes hypnotizing, until Patrick rouses himself enough to respond.

“Of course.”  Patrick slides under the covers and tucks himself against David almost automatically, his drowsiness letting him get away with it without even feeling awkward.  David curls his arm around Patrick’s body, holding him close, and Patrick drifts off feeling better than he has in a long, long time.

[ragnarachael]

Spooky Relaxation

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader, Peter Parker x Sister!Reader

Word Count: 1,567

Summary: Morgan spends Halloween with her Uncle Peter. You and Tony finally get some peace and quiet for a night. (request)

A Note: i... i am so sorry it took literally all year to get this out. i’ve scrapped this so much over the time it took to write this, if i’m being honest. i’ve also had a tony stark burn out (and just plain ol’ burnouts and writer’s block in general). i cannot apologize enough about the wait you’ve had, anon.

MASTERLIST !  FEEDBACK !

“Morgan can you please stay still?" You begged softly as she held her horned golden helmet on her head as she kept twisting around and watching her emerald and black robes swish with her movements.

Morgan just ignored your begging with giggles and swishing a bit faster.

"C'mon, Loki," Peter teased, his voice in a deeper octave as he carefully heaved Morgan up into his arms to place her on his hip. "Pose for the Midgardian and we shall get candy!"

You scrunched your face up fondly at your brother as he gave you a smug smile once Morgan started to cooperate. 

"I may be Midgardian, but I'm her mother, I'll have you know."

"Well aware, now take the picture! We have to get to the good houses that give out whole candy bars!"

You let out an exaggerated huff before holding your phone up once more, Peter and Morgan happily smiling to the point where their dimples were showing as May walked out of the kitchen in her usual witches costume she wore every year as she rushed to answer the door for some early trick or treaters.

If this were a normal Halloween, you and Tony would be dressed in costumes that matched Morgan's and walk around the closest neighborhood near home for candy. But for this Halloween, Morgan begged, begged, begged to go trick or treating with Peter this year.

All because he said he was going to be dressing up as Thor, since he'd been working on a costume for almost a full year.

Morgan was at your side the instance she heard Peter, asking nonstop if she could be his Loki.

Tony about had a heart attack when you brought it up to him, but regardless complied with his daughter and had some conversations with Loki himself on how the hell one goes about making a costume like Loki's dress type... thing he wore on Asgard.

After a few days of measurements and one sleepless night at the compound, Morgan's costume was complete with a cute little helmet for her head and everything.

Loki must have had a soft spot for Morgan because you have no idea how Tony could have finished it that fast.

After a few more whines and pictures, you were leaving May and Peter's apartment after giving Morgan a flurry of kisses as a goodbye and repeating the rules you'd set for Peter. No staying out past nine, have Morgan in bed by ten, be sure to check her candy before she even thinks about eating any of it, the easy stuff. You knew May would take over if anything were to happen.

Part of you wanted to take the long way home and swing around to the compound where Tony was, just to sneak a peek on what he was working on. But you knew that if you did that you'd spend your night back in his workshop and not at home in the cozy cabin the two of you had.

You were quick to push that idea out of your head, really wanting to spend time with Tony and just Tony.

It's been a long while since the two of you had the cabin to yourselves. Not that you both had really minded, but parenting can become exhausting. Quick. Especially when you have a 5 year old who will not stop being so energized, smart, and so quick witted.

Morgan really was Tony Stark's daughter.

Once you were out of the major city traffic, it was a breeze getting back home due to the minimal traffic around the area. It took almost no time at all before you were home, getting out of your car that you parked next to Tony's.

He was home before you for once, and that shocked you a bit.

You made sure you locked your car before you started the trek to the porch before opening the front door.

"Tony?" You called. You flicked your wrist to toss your keys in the small bowl you kept near the door in the small foyer before slipping your shoes off next to a pair of Tony's, hearing pots clanging from the kitchen.

You held back a laugh before you shut the door behind you, carefully navigating to the kitchen to peek on what your husband could possibly be getting up to.

Tony seemed to be cooking, despite what you just heard a moment ago. There was sizzling coming from the stove top where he stood while he quickly stirred something in a pot you could only assume, and the smell was phenomenal. Tony must have put a lot of effort into cooking for once, since there seemed to be no fires yet.

"Tony," you said again as you cocked a brow, carefully sliding up next to him after rounding the corner of the island to see what he was cooking. "What're you cooking?"

"I had FRIDAY look up some romantic dinner ideas and this sounded like a nice one."

You examined what was on the stove top before you and Tony: A pot of what looked like rigatoni noodles that were almost ready to be taken out of the pot, another covered pot of what you could only assume to be sauce of some kind. You did see some mozzarella and basil on the counter opposite of the stove top.

"Ziti?"

"How do you know that just by looking at the counter top and the pots I'm cooking in?" Tony questioned, putting down his weapon of choice for mixing to place a hand on his hip and turn his head to look at you.

"Because I love Ziti, baby. You should know this," you replied simply. Tony kept looking at you for a moment before giving a dramatic huff, leaning forward and pressing a sweet, short kiss to your lips.

"You're right. I should. Now get outta here, I gotta finish this up and then we can have dinner." 

You pouted and gave him one more kiss before being shooed out of the kitchen and into the den, finding what looked like a bowl of candy on the coffee table surrounded by some of the little crafts you helped Morgan make to decorate the inside of the house a bit.

Somehow, you found a way to pass the time while surfing through channels on the television. You shifted around on the couch, tugging at one of the throw blankets you threw across the back just this morning to pull it over yourself so you could at least be comfortable while waiting for your husband to finish dinner.

You eventually settled on Hocus Pocus and while Tony put the Ziti in the oven to bake a bit, he had gotten you both some wine to sip on before he was back up and in the kitchen when the timer continued beeping in his pocket.

"Shall we be rebels and eat on the couch?" Tony asked playfully, returning proudly with two plates of Ziti. You took a sip of wine as you patted his empty spot.

"We shall."

The two of you mutually decided to ignore the movie and just talk about your days once you both started picking at the food you had.

"How did our little trickster look with Patrick Swayze?"

You covered your mouth as you kept chewing, shaking with laughter before swallowing to speak. "She looked amazing. I'll get my phone from my pocket and show you whenever I put this plate down."

"That's no fun!" Tony dramatically complained, placing his plate on the coffee table. "Which pocket is it?"

You huffed and scooted a little bit farther away from him.

"You're not grabbing it for me! I'm eating! And ticklish!"

"Dear, I need to see those photos."

You and Tony stared each other down for a moment before the two of you were quick to spring into your own actions.

Tony was moving towards you quickly while you placed your plate of Ziti down next to your wine glass quickly before his fingers started to slip under the hem of your shirt to start tickling your sides.

"Tony! No!"

"Tony, yes!" He shouted dramatically over your squealing, his fingers happily shoving into every spot you were ticklish in. "Where's the phone, Mrs. Stark?"

"Ba-Back pocket!"

Tony continued his assault with one hand as he was quick to reach around and spend a moment feeling you up a bit more than necessary before your phone was in his hand. Once he got it, he was quick to stop and press a kiss to your forehead as a thank you.

You let out a breathless huff as he navigated to your camera roll quickly.

"I want a divorce."

"Sure you do, baby." Tony was smiling wide as he pulled up the picture with both Morgan and Peter smiling. "They look so good!"

"I know! We should have gone as Iron Man and Captain America," you quipped as you started to readjust yourself on the couch, finally catching all of your breath before reaching for your plate of food again.

"Does that mean I could have pulled the suit out from the compound?"

"It means we'd get a costume from Party City and hope for the best." 

After that, the rest of the night was just you, Tony, multiple glasses of wine, and ziti, and you wouldn't have had it any other way.

[discotreque]

Picard 1.10: Et in Arcadia Ego, Part 2

I don't really do predictions or theories when I'm watching something. Partly because I prefer to go along for the ride while it's happening and wait to judge with the benefit of hindsight, but mainly because I'm very bad at it.

Anyway, let's discuss Episode 10 of Picard, in which a bunch of things happen that I would have sworn up and down were never going to happen, and a bunch of things I thought would for sure happen did not.

Spoilers for the season finale:

I think I feel about Picard S1 the same way I feel about Discovery so far: I like every single thing about it more than the writing. The casting is great, the actors are pretty much all superb, I'm horny as hell for the production design, the VFX are the best I've ever seen on television, I absolutely love Jeff Russo's music...

...and the scripts are, you know, fine. Mostly fine. Moments of excellence, no doubt, especially at the level of individual lines and scenes, but overall? New TV Trek has yet to pull off a complete season-story that really impressed me. (I have reasons for extremely high hopes re: Disco S3, but I will save them for another post.)

With all of that said: I didn't come here for the writing. I wanted to spend time with my old friend Jean-Luc Picard at the end of the 24th century, and I got it. The rest is gravy. Not, like, the awesome gravy my sister makes at Thanksgiving; decent B+ restaurant gravy. I'm still gonna dip my fries in it.

"To say you have no choice is a failure of imagination." The first great Picard line of the episode, but not the last.

Blah blah Romulan incest siblings blah blah blah. They couldn't have mentioned sooner that Narek was the family fuck-up or whatever? He would have been like 6% less boring.

Raffi and Rios constantly, lovingly dunking on each other is one of my favourite dynamics on this show.

Okay I was just joking last week about Saga's whole brain being in her eyeball but the fact that the damage to her eye fucked up her memories...

Why are they sitting outside the ship having a campfire? Isn't the ship basically fine? Why not hang out inside?

"The Thousand Days of Pain" is the name of my metal band.

Agnes using Saga's ripped-out eye to bypass the scanner had big Minority Report energy. Thank god she didn't have to chase it down a ramp while it rolled away from her.

"The way that children learn most things: by example."

RSVP Sutra, the only interestingly-written villain in this entire season. Tamlyn Tomita is super duper watchable as Commodore Oh/General Nedar (and looking fiiiine in that black uniform), but she has no personality or motivation beyond "grr, robots bad." Sutra lives in a society that's mostly twins, but her twin sister was fucking murdered. Obviously I don't agree with her actions, but I understood and cared about her motivations, which is more than I can say for any of the Romulans.

All those exterior shots of La Sirena wobbling through space with Picard at the helm were adorable.

We literally never see Narek again after the androids take him away. I hope they just threw him in a dumpster. Bye bitch.

Seven didn't do a ton of hand-to-hand combat on VOY, and she sure didn't fight like this. Jeri Ryan moves like she's heavy, like her bones are made of metal, like she's still full of dense Borg technology. She practically lumbers around, using her limbs like clubs; Peyton List bounces off her like she's hitting a solid steel wall. It's excellent choreography and so well executed by both women (and presumably their stunt doubles).

GET FUCKED, RIZZO. You were barely interesting enough to hate, but I did hate you.

"'The Picard Maneuver.' Wait, that's actually a thing, isn't it?" Ell oh ell.

Loved the way the Romulan ships' disruptors sizzled and crackled when they were powering up.

What was wrong with Planetary Sterilization Patterns 1 through 4?

That motherfucking fanfare when the Starfleet ships came in. Awwww yeah.

ACTING CAPTAIN WILL RIKER. Still kinda wish it had been Worf on the Entrepreneur, though, because I'm greedy: we already saw Riker!

I do have my problems with the writing, but I loved the way they resolved the three-way standoff between the Romulans, Starfleet, and the ch'khalagu: not with an epic space battle, but with diplomacy and self-sacrifice and trust in the essential goodness of each other. (Plus, I guess, the threat of an epic space battle.) It was so perfectly TNG in so many ways.

All the Riker stuff was so fan-servicey. Which I'm mostly fine with: I'm a fan, after all, and I like to be serviced from time to time. But it felt a little like one slice too many of chocolate cake.

I wish the tips of the tentacles had got cut off when the portal closed. That would have been cooler, right?

What can I say about watching Jean-Luc Picard die. He's been my captain for 30 years. I physically fucking felt it. And making an android copy of him, while awesome, did not really diminish the emotional impact.

On a lighter note, I need to know what Jeri and Santiago were actually drinking in that scene, because it straight-up looked like soap. Yuck.

I also really like the dynamic between Rios and Seven. They both act a little harder than they are, and I think they see through each other's acts, but there's enough mutual respect (and self-interest) there to let each other get away with it. And no romantic tension whatsoever. Delightful.

I want to hug all of them so much :(

The blank grey surface of everything in the simulation was very creepy.

Oh Data. Oh, Data. My heart was already aching and then...

Listen. Like a fucking idiot, I went and saw Nemesis on opening night. I don't even remember what I was expecting, but I do remember walking out of the theatre with my friend and agreeing never to speak of it again. Data died, but the movie was so shitty I could barely feel anything about it. This episode gave me the emotional closure I've been waiting for since December 13, 2002.

It's also, if you think about it, a pretty hilarious "fuck you" to Nemesis in general: "You guys did such a bad job of killing Data we had to bring him back to life just so we could kill him properly."

They've been slightly aging-up Patrick Stewart all season. I stopped noticing it after a while, so seeing him without it at the end was quite a shock.

"You... you haven't made me immortal?!" "Relax, man. Everyone was paying attention." Okay, Altan can stay.

Speaking of ol’ A.I., can't he just make another golem for himself? Was there something unique about the one they put Picard in?

I thought I recognized the voice of the woman singing "Blue Skies" on my first watch, but I couldn't place her. Turns out that was Isa Briones herself, which meant I cried even harder the second time through.

"And our little life is rounded with a sleep." Goodbye, Data.

Seven and Raffi???????

SEVEN AND RAFFI?????????????

And once again, Jeff Russo ends the season with a mash-up of the old theme and the new one. Give my man another Emmy! Give him two!

God damn. What a ride. Let me climb into my clown shoes for one last shitty prediction. I think next season is going to be what I wanted from this season: Picard and his motley crew of rogues bopping around the galaxy having roguish adventures. Fingers crossed!

And thanks for reading. Star Trek is always more fun with friends.

[vexation-virgil]

Colors (Part 4)

Fandom: Sanders Sides (Soulmate AU) Pairings: Prinxiety, mentions of Logicality Warnings: General angst, cursing, mentions of death, mentions of past suicide(Again, if there is anything that needs tagged, let me know!) Summary: Everyone knows when you meet your soulmate, the world is supposed to fill with color for the both of you. Unfortunately for Roman Patrick, that is not always the case.

Taglist(!!): @pendragonqueen09 , @anaveragegayfan , @stillebesat

A/N: There is some SERIOUS stuff in this chapter so please do not take the warnings lightly, I don’t want anyone to feel triggered or hurt by this chapter.Thank you.

The next chapter will have some more Logicality so wee! Enjoy and thanks for reading!

PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 You are Here PART 5 PART 6 PART 7 PART 8 PART 9 PART 10  PART 11 PART 12

Roman made it through the next day with a revived, upbeat spirit. The promise of time spent with his soulmate was enough to have him singing Disney songs in the morning, doodling in classes, and forgetting his lines during rehearsal because his mind was an hour ahead of himself in the library. That and he had been practically dancing through the halls all day. His attitude had changed enough that even his brother had mentioned it while they were eating, in passing commenting on the sudden mood change and what it could mean - only to be shushed by Patton and told to enjoy it.

(He was proud to say that he’d managed to tone himself down enough to not scare Virgil off from seeing him that afternoon. He still took his seat at the front of the class and only blocked Virgil from leaving the class long enough to confirm their plans for meeting. No more creepy staring reputation was the goal, after all.)

That didn’t keep him from nearly sprinting towards the library after Mr. Sanders called for the end of rehearsal - with a very pointed reminder to study the lines. He slowed the closer he got, catching sight of lavender hair hanging over a book at a table in the back of the library and a pencil rolling between Virgil’s fingers as he concentrated on the text in front of him. Roman placed a hand on the other to announce his arrival after noting the headphones covering his ears, causing Virgil to jump and drop his pencil. Virgil slid the patterned headphones off of his ears and glared up at Roman, “I’m almost positive there is a better way to announce showing up, dude.”

“Well, I would’ve used a different method if you hadn’t had your ears covered by those ginormous headphones, Grumpy,” Roman informed him matter-of-factly as he dropped into the seat beside him and started pulling out the assignment they had agreed to work on.

Virgil rolled his eyes and dog-eared the book before shutting it. “There wasn’t anything playing on them,” he admitted. “I can’t focus when I’ve got music playing. But they keep people from talking to me so I tend to keep them on anyway. Not a big fan of conversation if you couldn’t guess.”

Roman snorted. “Yeah, I think I could’ve figured it out,” he said with a small smile on his face. “Though, honestly, I would’ve blamed it on our rocky start.”

“Yeah, well, forget it, Princey. New start or whatever. Let’s talk about The Color Study. The first of six soulmate stories we’ll be reading and writing about this semester. I can’t believe how many they’re making us read this year.”

If Roman wasn’t mistaken, he could hear something similar to annoyance at the mention of soulmates from Virgil and the smile on his face quickly dropped to a frown. “You don’t seem very pleased about that. Those are some of my favorite stories. Romance and true love and all that fun stuff. How do you not love all that? How do you not want that?”

“Because it all ends in heartbreak and depression and someone being alone. Why does anyone want that?”

That made him blink. “It doesn’t always end like that. My friend’s dad died and his mom was just as bubbly and happy as always. She knew their time had come to an end. She was just happy she got the time she did with him. Most people continue to live complete lives with their soulmates, anyway, and die within years of each other.”

“Yeah, okay?” Virgil said, voice sharp. “Not everyone gets that. Not everyone’s time comes to an end when they’re ready. Not everyone gets a happy ending. Life isn’t some fucking story, alright? My dad is stuck here without my mom because she decided she didn’t want to keep going. My dad isn’t allowed to go because my mom begged him on a little piece of paper not to follow her. I was afraid he was going to anyway.” Something darkened on Virgil’s face and Roman watched his spine straighten out. “I don’t want to do that. Ever. We’re done talking about it. Just give me your paper so I can start marking it up.”

Roman opened his mouth to come at him with a rebuttal, ask how he intended to keep himself from seeing when the time came but snapped his mouth shut when he thought about the possibility of Virgil completely shutting him out. Maybe his soulmate had already been able to pull it off. They traded papers and slipped into silence, their argument looming over their heads the rest of the afternoon.

When Logan showed up to bring him home, Roman’s mind was spinning with the gained information. Virgil didn’t want a soulmate and seemed nearly sickened by the idea that people did want that because he’d had to watch his father suffer after losing his. Roman couldn’t say he particularly blamed him. He remembered Logan panicking when he decided to spend a week at a science camp and realized two days before he left that he was going to have to go without Patton, the idea of leaving his soulmate behind for even a short amount of time shattered his typically steely exterior.

It wasn’t easy to imagine having one of his parents without the other, either, especially unexpectedly. Patton’s father had died with they were young but they’d been expecting it after a terminal cancer diagnosis. They’d been able to prepare for the inevitable loss. If Roman had put the pieces together correctly, they hadn’t been expecting the death of his mother. It had come abruptly and painfully quick through her own hand. The thought made Roman’s stomach turn.

There was also the question of whether or not he could actually force himself to not see the color. Had anyone ever done that before? Was it even possible for someone to do that? Even if it was, would the other still see color if their soulmate was so against the whole idea? Roman hoped. He hoped and he hoped and he hoped.

“You’re quiet,” Logan said, voice cutting through the silence in the car. “I was hoping your improved mood would stick for longer than one day. Do you… Have something you would like to talk about, Roman?”

It was sweet to see his brother trying to talk to him about his feelings, something that he typically reserved for when Patton was around to run interference with Logan’s far too logical thinking. “No, nothing. It was just a long day,” he told him, though he followed with a short pause. “Actually, I had a question. I was speaking to a classmate about a particular story we had to read and it seemed to me that he doesn’t believe in the whole… Soulmate thing.”

“That’s illogical. That is not something that is deniable in this life. It is a proven fact that soulmates exist and that they are how we are able to see the full spectrum of life.”

“Right, yes, I know that, obviously, but he said that he doesn’t want one. At all. Do you know - with all that science in your head - if it’s possible for someone to ignore that connection? To ignore the color if they truly don’t want a soulmate?”

“You know that this is not my area of expertise, Roman,” Logan grumbled, glancing at him sideways. “But, as far as I am aware, no one has truly studied this. There have been very few people in this world who did not want a soulmate, even fewer who did not want one so strongly that they were able to ignore the connection. Though, if Pat was here, he would tell you that nothing is impossible if you set your mind to it.” Roman hummed and his brother continued. “I, also, do not believe that it is completely impossible that someone would be able to push that down far enough for it not to resurface immediately after meeting their soulmate. It would be a fascinating study if one was to find someone like that.”

Roman nodded a bit as he listened to his brother branch off into the details of such a study, though he was stuck on the idea that it was possible that the feeling could be shoved down far enough to not come up. He was stuck even more on the word immediately. The word came with the suggestion that they could come up with time, with a connection, and the hope sizzled in his stomach. Perhaps all was not lost, perhaps he was not one-sided, perhaps it would all work out in the end.

Roman had hope.

[footballffbarbiex]

Hi! For Locatelli and Cutrone, I would like a super jealous, mad and preferably smutty one. Thank you!

Ok so this is my first time writing both Patrick and Manuel. This one is based on Patrick but Manuel does make an appearance. I always get so nervous writing new people so if my characterisation isn’t right, I’m sorry! If you read it please let me know what you thought. Give it some love or leave me an ask and I’ll know to write more of him in future. 

Request here. Masterlist here. __________________________________

Shots shots shots.

That bastard.

I glare at him from my spot as he mingles with others.Not only had he caused a huge argument before we came out but now he has theaudacity to flirt with others right in front of me. He moves around the room with a drink in his hand, stopping for differentwomen. His hand resting on the bottom of their backs, he gently pushes theirhair from their face and tucks it behind their ear while staring at themintently as he really listens to whatthey have to say. He laughs at all the right times, he smiles at them and makesthem feel as though they’re the only one in the room.

I know this because he did exactly the same to me.

Howfucking dare he.

I ball my hands into fists, my nails digging into thepalms of my hands as I do so. I grit my teeth and turn on my heel beforestomping my way towards the bar. I don’t want to make a scene but I can feel mypatience wearing thin as I continue to watch him. He knows I’m watching and is playing on it yet I can’t force myself tolook away. I want him to fuck up just so I can argue with him. He dances closeto the edge before pulling back before I can snap. I know he’s enjoying this.

An emotional form of foreplay. He likes it when I’mangry. We have our most explosive and mind-blowing sex whilst angry. But two can play this game. And his jealousy is much worse than mine.

I order three shots from the barmaid and knock the firstone back quickly once they’re in front of me.“Someone’s looking annoyed…” His voice comes from behind me. “Probably because I am.” I reply and lift the next shot glass to my lips andswallow the liquid in one. I wince at the taste of sambucca and try to composemyself. The last time I drank this I almost died or so it felt. My hangover wasridiculous and I swore never to drink it again. “What did you do this time?” Manuel asks, leaning on the bar and claiming mylast shot. I scowl at him as he drinks it down and slams the glass rim sidedown on the bar. A trickle of liquid oozes around the glass where it drips out.“What makes you think it was me?” “Why else would he be doing this?”“Because your friend is a dick.” I offer and he laughs. “If it was me,” Manuel begins, his eyes dropping to my arm where his fingertipstrail up to my elbow and back down to my wrist, “I’d fight fire with fire. AndI know exactly who you can play with. He hasn’t been able to take his eyes fromyou all night.” I hide my smirk. Manuel always did think like me.

I turn to follow his gaze and spot him immediately.Taller than Patrick, with dark hair and dark eyes, he was incredibly goodlooking. He grins at me when he spots me looking. “And what makes you think he would be happy with me using him to make Patrickjealous?”“Because he knows you’re with Patrick and that he’d kill him if he triedanything. He’s already asked me about you.”“You’ve thought this through haven’t you?” I smirk at him. “Why are you helpingme? Surely you should be on your friends side not mine.”Manuel shrugs and smiles to himself. “Sometimes it’s fun to piss him off.”

I order a vodka lemonade and add a straw before turningto Manuel, “then let these games begin.”“Just no fighting. It’s my birthday after all.” He calls after me as I walktowards my new friend.

He was even better up close. Large brown eyes framed withthick long lashes, sculptured cheekbones, a strong jaw and full lips. Softcurly brown hair. I’m in love from first glance. He’s easily the most good-lookingguy here and the fact that he’s not been able to take his eyes from me gives mean extra sizzle. I feel sexy. Wanted. He introduces himself and makes small talk. I don’t need to fake my laughterbecause he’s genuinely funny, genuinely makes me smile with the things that hesays. He’s complimentary but not too much. He’s charismatic but not overly so.He knows how good-looking he is but doesn’t milk it. Overall it’s a dangerouscombination and one that I’d be tripping over myself for a taste of if I weresingle. We flirt openly. There’s no expectations as we both know I’m taken. Hedoesn’t push the boundaries but charms me enough to consider what he could belike if I were single. I copy Patrick, my hand brushing against Marc’s arm, myfingers remaining on his skin a little longer than they should, long lingeringlooks and I block out everyone else when I listen to what he has to say.“Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Patrick.” I hear his sickly sweet tone beforeI see his hand extending from behind me. “I’m Marc,” my new friend shakes his hand and I notice the way Patrick gripsMarc’s hand. The white marks appearing in Marc’s tanned skin from histightening grip. A sign of dominance. She’smine, fuck off.“Yes, this is my new friend Marc. He’s been keeping me company this evening.” Iturn to smile at Patrick and give him an innocent look. His jaw is set and hiseyes flicker to me with annoyance. “How nice of him.” Sarcasm oozes from his voice, “can I speak with you amoment?” He asks as his hand finds my arm. His fingers pinch at the nook in myelbow as he steers me away before I can answer or say anything to Marc.“Well that’s fucking rude.” I say, yanking my arm back out of his grip andrunning my hand over the muscle that aches there as I’m pushed into thehallway, out of the large hall of the hotel where the party is being held. “Oh I’m rude?” Patrick’s voice rises. “Yes you’re rude. That’s what I said isn’t it?” My arm throbs from his grip butit’s the look in his eyes that causes a throb elsewhere. “You’re not his to flirt with.” “And neither were those women but you still did it happily. So quit complainingand let me back inside,” I try to move past him but he pushes me against thewall and covers my body with his.

“Why? So you can go back to flirting with him? Did hemake you wet? Did he make you want to fuck him?” he stares down at me, hiserection digging into my hip. “Yes. Is that what you wanted to hear from me Patrick? That I wanted his hugedick inside me, fucking me in ways that you can’t? Is that what you want?” Ilift my face to glare at him. If he was going to reprimand me for doingsomething that he had done many times over this evening then I was going tomake him pay for it. Even if those thoughts hadn’t entered my head.

He steps away from me for a moment before grabbing myhand, squatting before me and hoisting me over his shoulder. “You’re going to fucking regret saying that.” He strides down the hall towardsthe lift.“Patrick put me down.” I thump him on the back as I struggle in an attempt toget down while he presses the button. “No. The more you do that, the worse it’ll be for you.” The doors to the lift opens and he steps inside, dropping me back onto my feetand pushes me against the wall; his lips are on my neck and his hands slippingup my skirt as the doors close. My head drops back and my lips part as a moanescapes them. His hands slide over my ass, cupping it as he pulls my hipstowards him. Patrick sucks on the skin covering my collarbone leaving a redmark there before kissing his way to the swell of my breasts. His stubblegrazes my skin and his teeth nip at it. Patrick pulls away from me as the liftmakes a noise and the doors open once more.

I must look disheveled because the couple stood waitinggive us both a dirty look as we exit the lift. Patrick takes my hand and pullsme down the hallway towards our room. His card key is out before we reach thedoor. “Vaffanculo,”he hisses as his third attempt to get the door light to turn green fails. Ibump him out of the way with my hip and snatch the card from him, the lightturning from red to green and a soft click in the door says it’s open. “Your language is disgusting right now,” I tell him as he pulls me into theroom and slams the door closed behind us. “So is the fact that you’re still dressed but only one of those things is goingto change.”

His fingers pull my top free and begins to pull it up. Ilift my arms to help and he throws it across the room. His hands run along mywaist before unbuttoning my skirt and pushing the zip down before yanking thematerial down my legs. I step out of the skirt and stand before him in just myunderwear and heels. “The idea of him seeing you like this or touching you…” he trails off as hislips connect with my neck once more. He walks me backwards; his tongue makingpatterns on my skin while his lips leaving open mouth kisses as they travel.The bedframe hits the back of my knees and I fall backwards, bouncing softly onthe mattress. “I don’t want anyone else seeing you like this.” Patrick says ashe pulls his shirt over his head and discards it. His eyes travel from my face,down to my breasts before finally settling between my legs.

I open them willingly as he kneels before me on thefloor. His hand close around my ankles and he pulls me down the bed towards theedge. I wrap my legs over his shoulders and cross my ankles in the middle ofhis back. He pulls my knickers to the side and with no hesitations, presses his lips tomy folds before his tongue darts in and out of my core.

My moan fills the room before I can stop it. My fingersentangle themselves within his hair, holding him firmly between my legs.Patrick’s tongue licks upwards, circling my clit before he sucks it into hismouth and flicks his tongue over it.

When he pushes two fingers into me, I call out his nameand grip his hair with one hand and the bed sheet with the other. My hips buckto him, my back arches and I whimper when he applies more pressure to my clit.His fingers move continuously inside me, pulling them out halfway beforepushing them back in until his knuckles hit my skin. Patrick curls his fingersto stroke against my g-spot and he begins a come here motion with them to matchthe pace of his tongue.

My thighs shake and my feet dig into his back, pushinghim closer into my pussy. My grip tightens on his hair as he sucks hard againstme and I feel my orgasm spread through me before covering his knuckles. I relaxmy legs, uncrossing my ankles and allowing my feet to rest on the bed again.“You have no idea how sexy it is making you come like that.” He murmurs againstthe soft skin of my thighs. Patrick stands and strips himself of the rest ofhis clothes before climbing onto the bed. He pulls my knickers down my legs andsmirks. “On your knees.”

I turn myselfaround on shaky legs and press my torso into the bed. I feel the tip of hiscock at my entrance, only just having time to suck in a deep breath before hethrusts into me. Patrick enters me half way, allowing me to adjust to him as Istretch around him before pulling almost out and pushing back in again fully.My breath catches in my throat as he continues to thrust into me, his handsgripping my hips as his pubic bone slaps against my ass. Pleasure ripplesthrough me that only grows as Patrick cusses; a low throaty growl that has mypussy clenching around him and my eyes to roll into my head as the tightenedsensation only adds more.His thrusts are a steady rhythm, an even pace that satisfies the both of us. I find myself beginning to push back against him, meeting each of his thrusts.I moan for him to fuck me harder. His nails dig into my hips as he does so, hiships slamming into me as he takes me harder and deeper.

He splaysa hand on my back, pushing me down further into the bed. I turn my head, anglingso I’m able to see him slightly. He groans as he watches himself slide in andout of me.“Fuck you feel so amazing.” He hisses as I tense around him. “I’m not going tolast much longer.”He keeps up the rhythm, his thrusts whilst still fast, begin to turn uneven ashe chases his orgasm. Patrick groans behind me, his fingers digging into mewith such force that I know I’ll be left with bruises where they were. He holdsmy hips still as he comes in four successive thrusts. I feel him shake slightlybehind me as he begins to pull out; his breathing coming out in laboured pants.“Don’t ever do that to me again.” He says as he lays beside me, a lazy smilenow on his face. “It was mainly my idea but you drove me to it.” I lay down next to him,snuggling into his chest as my fingers draw shapes on his skin. “Flirting withthose women in the same manner you did with me at the start. Nice to know Iwasn’t special for you to break your pick up routine.” I tease him. “Or maybe I did it because I knew that would piss you off. I can’t evenremember why we argued.” He comments, lost in thought for a moment. “What doyou mean, mainly?”“Manuel may have pointed me in the direction of Marco…”“He’s such a fucking dick.” He laughs. “All this because I took the piss out ofhim for getting rejected the other day.”I’m yours though Patrick, I don’t want anyone else.”“Neither do I.”

[theliterateape]

Loony

by Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

He awoke in a panic with a piss boner bursting through his boxers. He sprung from his bed, legs crossed, praying to God to help him make it in time. He limped into the bathroom, struggled to remove his underpants, aimed clumsily, and let it rip; forgetfully, leaving the door wide open. His stream was that of a young, inexperienced marksman; strong, but with a mind of its own.  Bright yellow urine shot into and around the toilet bowl, echoing down the adjacent hallway. He managed to spray the wall, the vanity, and the flamingo’d shower curtain; his nocturnal back-up making a mess of it all. He stood, trancelike, indifferent to his poor aim, relieving himself like an untrained puppy. 

The rank smell permeated the tiny space, announcing last night’s meal, which included copious servings of asparagus.

He was 12.

“Patrick!  Praise God, what are ya’ doin’ there?” His mother’s shrill voice, screeching like a hawk, rose over the downpour of his urgent elimination. Her hair, a tangled mess woven amongst a cadre of fat curlers, a fag dangling from her cracked ruby lips, and a stained blue robe wrapped around her bony body.

He turned, startled, mid-stream, redirecting his flow, now pissing into the hall, where his mother stood puffing away.

“Patrick!” She grabbed him by his hair. “For shite sake. You’ve wee’d on your mam. You’ve run astray, my God; you don’t know what you’re doin’.”  She pinched his cheek.  “Wake up, lad!”

His mam’s intervention was for naught. He casually finished his business and passed a toot to boot, pulling up his boxers as if he’d just gotten done, in a totally civil fashion, browsing through the Sunday paper while performing his morning ritual.

“Come here, dear.” She moved carefully towards her boy, her feet sheathed with once furry slippers that had spent far too many a year encasing her bunion-covered feet. She drew her son into her arms, taking great pains to avoid his still-stiff organ. She released him. “This has to stop,” she mumbled, crossing herself. “Sweet Jesus,” she looked up and whispered to the bathroom ceiling,“give me a wee bit of direction here.”

“Mam!” Patrick pushed her away, hard on finally relenting, suddenly aware of the yellow rivulets decorating the toilet, the wall, and the flamingos; slammed into the here and now, looking for answers to a question he did not understand.  “What are ya’ doin’, Mam, standing there all daft like I committed a crime!”

“What am I doin’?” Hands planted on her hips. “I’m takin’ care of me boy! My ‘pissin’ all over the house’, asparagus-eatin’, 12-year-old boy!”

In an awkward silence Paddy and his mam struggled to avoid each other’s gaze. Only the rattling fan broke the tension in the tiny, fermenting space. Tears welled in Paddy’s gray-green eyes. His red bed-head hair shot sideways from his skull, creating a fiery halo around his freckled face. “I’m sorry, Mam! I am.”

“It’s got to stop.” Her voice low, exasperated. 

“I don’t know what to do, Mam. It happened again.”

She took another drag, and exhaled a phlegm-filled sigh towards the malfunctioning fan, the blue haze swirliing towards its dirty yellowed grate.  

“Why am I like this, Ma?” He switched off the fan, its blades grinding to a halt.

“It’s a ting,”she said.

“What kinda ting?”

“A family ting. Your da would do it too. Piss all over. I used to have a tiny phonograph. He wee’d on that in the middle of de night. It was still spinnin’. Ruined me favorite record.”

He looked down at the floor. A chill swept over him. She pulled his trembling body into her bulky robe. He cringed, but she held him tight, scruffing his carrot-top hair. The stench of her, the early morning wake-up cigarette, bath powder, and cheap tea, assaulted his senses. “There, there, Paddy. You’ll be fine. “’Tis the challenges in life we need to deal with. It’s not a fecking party in the pub every day of the week, ya’ know.”

“Ma?” His voice muffled in her robe.

“Yeah, son?”

“Where’s da?”

She stepped back from her boy and studied him. She sucked another drag and raised her head, exhaling. “We’ve been down this trail before.”

“Where, Ma?”

“I told you.”

“Ma….”

Her blue-veined hands twitched ever so… as she pulled hard on her cig. She rubbed her scaly neck and fiddled with her thinning hair. “You make it hard, Paddy, with all your questions.”

“He’s locked away.”

“Where’d that come from?” she snapped, placing both his cheeks in her hands.

“James.” His voice a whisper.

“Don’t be leaning on other people’s evil to make up your own life’s story.” 

“He said, Ma, that Da was loony. And the coppers put him away.”

She tossed the fag into the toilet. Its ash sizzled in the yellowish water. “Come, Paddy, let’s have a bit of a chat.” She took his hand and guided him into the cluttered living room, dimming the light and patting the frayed sofa, motioning for him to sit beside her.

His lips quivered, still dressed only in his boxers. “Lord, you’re still cold, da lips, they’re turnin’ blue.” She reached over to the ottoman and removed one of her quilts, wrapping it around him. He snuggled into it, breathing a long sigh.

 “Better?”

“Tanks, Ma.”

“Your da had many tings rollin’ around in his head. He had the troubles. Here.” She gently tapped her son’s head. “But a good man. He tried.”

“I try, Ma.” 

“I know you do, Paddy, but he tried to figure too much.”

“Figure what?”

“Like the sun, the wind. He’d sit and point to the leaves on the trees, blowin’ this way and that. I thought it was nice, romance like, but he did it…,” she shook her head slowly, “too much.”

“He’d just sit and watch the wind?”

“Or the stars. Or the rain.”

“Why would the coppers take him away for that?”

“People don’t understand.”

“But Ma...”

“He could build tings, when he wasn’t dreamin’. And one day he’d finished a fence for Jimmy Doyle. Your da was a grand fence builder. Even built one for Mr. Daley, the kinda’ man you don’t meet every day now, and Jimmy said he’d pay your Da in a month. But the deal was pay now, when done.”

“Why’d the coppers take him away?”

“Your da wanted the money right off, no waiting. But Jimmy was a guy who thought he was someting’. He’d go down to O’Roarke’s and get into scuffs. Put up his dukes.”

Paddy smiled and raised his fists. “I remember Da when I was a wee lad, showin’ me how to fight.”

“He loved you, Paddy.” She rubbed his head. “You have his hair. Red as the burnin’sun.”

“What then, Ma, with Doyle?”

“Doyle had had a few pints at the pub. His chest got all puffy. He got like that when he’d have a drink. And he come here lookin’ for Da.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to scrap. Put on the squeeze. Show him up.”

“What did Da do?”

“He was up on the roof.”

“The roof?” Paddy’s voice rose with both embarrassment and confusion.

“He was gazin’ at the stars, like he did. Them lads were full of dew and tried to have fun on him. Yellin’ vile words and callin’ him loony and tings.”

“What did Da do?”

“He gave ‘em what for.”

“What for?”

“He climbed down. He told Doyle and the other drunkards to leave because he was lookin’ at the stars. They laughed like they were teasin’ a wee cripple.”

“What did Da do?”

“ Your da took his hammer, the claw end....”  She hesitated, picking at the collar of her robe.

“What, Ma?”

“…and buried it in Doyle’s eye.”

“In his eye?”

“Aye, lad. Right in his feckin’ eye.”

“What then, Ma?”

“Doyle lay writhin’ in his mess and your Da just went back on the roof, calm as could be. The other lads scurried off like the banshees were lightin’ out.”

“And then the coppers came?”

“Aye.” Her voice barely audible. “They came and took him away.”

“Was he, Ma?”

“What?” she said, pulling her robe tight around her neck.

“Loony,” he asked, his soft voice cracking in the morning air. “Was he, Ma?”

“Oh, Paddy.” She rubbed her gnarled fingers over her nose, wiping the snot of her tears away. “I don’t know.”

“Am I, Ma?”

“I don’t want to hear it, Paddy.”

“Loony.  Like Da.”

Silence filled the room with a thick darkness. His ma searched for her handkerchief buried in her matted robe. 

“Am I?  I think things too, Ma. Crazy tings. I’m pissin’ all over. I dream when I ain’t sleepin’.  And I look just like ‘im.  Am I, Ma?  Am I loony?”

She choked, coughing up an anguished moan as if her past was erupting from her belly. “I don’t know, Paddy.”

“Will the coppers take me, too?”

She pulled him closer, clutching him with all her strength, keeping him from falling into the blackness of his fate. She took a deep breath, her gnarled fingers squeezing him with her terror.

“Will they, Ma?” 

“Never,” she said, standing, ripping back the curtains.  “Never,” her voice filling the sunlit room.

[sincerelybluevase]

Fanfic Friday: Breathless, Chapter 10 [FINAL]

This chapter is longer than the other ones, but there was a lot to be resolved! I could’ve opted to split it into two chapters, but for structural reasons I wanted this fic to have ten chapters. I hope you guys will enjoy it; I certainly had a lot of fun writing it 😉.

A little disclaimer: everything I know about childbirth is through the internet and CtM.

The contractions started in the night. Shelagh felt them, decided they were probably Braxton Hicks, and forced herself to go back to sleep. When she woke again, Patrick had already left for work, leaving a hastily-scribbled note in his illegible handwriting.

Shelagh made breakfast for herself and Timothy, doing her best to ignore the pains in her lower back.

“Are you all right?” Timothy asked her, frowning. The way he knit his brows was exactly the same as Patrick’s.

“Yes. Don’t worry about me. You must go to school,” she said, giving him a tight smile.

“You look pale.”

“Yes, well, your little brother or sister is not giving me much time to sleep,” Shelagh said, patting her belly. “Baby keeps moving around an awful lot.”

“That’s good,” Timothy said, spooning the last of his porridge into his mouth. “And it’s normal, isn’t it? For babies to move around a lot in the last few months?”

“It’s perfectly ordinary,” Shelagh agreed. Another sharp twinge of pain sizzled along her nerves, robbing her of the breath she needed to say anything more. She bit the inside of her cheek so as not to make a sound.

What if these are real contractions?

She looked at her watch, counting the seconds to see how long the pain lasted.

Forty seconds. That’s not good.

“Do you mind… if I don’t walk you to school?” she asked. She hadn’t done it often, not in the last few months, but still…

“I’ll be fine, Mum,” Timothy said. He took his coat and bag, hesitated on the threshold, and turned back to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “You’ll call Dad if something is wrong, won’t you?”

“Of course, dearest,” she said, smiling that strange, tight smile again, keeping it up till Timothy was no longer in sight. Then, she let her mask slip, and went to the phone immediately, trying not to whimper as another stitch tore through her.

Five minutes since the last one. I need Patrick, she thought as she rung the surgery.

But Patrick was not there, and his assistant had no idea when he’d be back.

Don’t panic. You’re a midwife, for crying out loud, and these are probably just Braxton Hicks, she admonished herself.

She made herself another cup of tea and forced the sweet brew down. To calm herself, she took her Bible, and read some of her favourite passages, singing a hymn or two. There was a familiarity in the words, in the steady cadence of her own voice, even if she was rather short of breath these days.

She rested the heavy book on her bump, stroking the soft leather with one finger, her stretched flesh with another. The pain had eased a little. Shelagh smiled. “What’s all this fuss about hm?” she said, looking at her belly. She splayed her hand on her stomach . “It’s a bit early for you to come out, you know. Besides, you’re perfectly all right where you are. Not to say I don’t want to meet you, of course. Your father and big brother would like to meet you, too. Not yet, though.”

The baby kicked against her palm. She patted the spot softly. “I’ll tell you a little secret: I like having you so near me.” I can keep you safe.

Shelagh did not like admitting it, but she was terrified of giving birth. There were so many things that could go wrong, and she, in her capacity as a midwife, had seen almost all of the worst-case scenarios first hand.

Though a part of her ached to meet this child, this new soul that was part of her and part of Patrick and part of something all its own, there was another part that ached with the knowledge that this baby would have to be ripped from her body.

“Not yet, though,” she repeated.

She stood so she could clear the table. Something inside her popped, sounding like Timothy cracking his knuckles before sitting down to play the piano. Water gushed between her legs, soaking her socks and slippers. She stared at the glistening kitchen tiles in horror.

“I said not yet,” she whispered.

Another contraction rippled through her. She clutched the counter with white-knuckled hands, panting through it.

Every five minutes, and they last roughly a minute. There’s no denying it, Shelagh: these are not Braxton Hicks.

As soon as it was over, she wiped the amniotic fluid from the floor, then made her way to the phone again. She called Granny Parker first, asking the other woman if she could pick Timothy up from school; she could not have her stepson coming home whilst she was still trying to give birth.

Then, she called the surgery. Mrs. Feather, Patrick’s secretary, again told her that he was currently not available.

“Please tell Doctor Turner he has to come home as soon as possible,” Shelagh said, doing her best not to sound desperate. “I think I’ve gone into labour.”

She almost dropped the horn as she hung up. She pressed a hand against her mouth, and sobbed.

What was she to do? She could call for an ambulance to bring her to hospital, but what was the point? She was not in desperate need of that kind of medical attention; she would take up a precious bed that could be used for someone who really needed it. She could suffer through her confinement alone, waiting for Patrick, but what if something went wrong and she could not reach the phone in time?

There was only one thing she could do: call Nonnatus.

Shelagh picked the phone up with trembling hands. Who would answer? Did it matter?

But I can’t face them. They’ll judge me, and I…

A contraction spasmed through her, sending little shocks of pain through her system.

“All right, all right,” she murmured, patting her belly.

She dialled the number, trying to keep her voice steady so the operator would not hear how scared she was.

At least I know the people at Nonnatus. I wouldn’t want to go to hospital, to be treated by strangers. Though maybe anonymity is a blessing in my case.

But she didn’t believe that, not really.

The phone rang once, twice, three times.

“Be strong,” she told herself, glancing at her Bible. The book lay open on the kitchen table, sprawling like a sleeping child.

“Nonnatus house, midwife speaking.”

Shelagh pressed her forehead against the wall, doing her best not to cry. She could not prevent a sob from bubbling from her lungs as relief flooded her system.

“Sister Julienne? It’s Shelagh. My waters broke. I tried to call Patrick, but he’s on a case, and I… I’m so afraid…”

Silence.

“Sister?” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m on my way.”

***

Shelagh had gone to the bedroom by the time Sister Julienne arrived, and changed into clothes not reeking of amniotic fluid. The nun knew where to find the spare key, and let herself in.

Shelagh burst into tears as soon as her former sister entered the room.

Sister Julienne hugged her, cupping her head and dropping a kiss on her temple.

Shelagh curled her hand in her sister’s habit, groaning as another contraction reduced her world to simple sensation. When it was done, Sister Julienne guided her to the bed. “How often?” she asked.

“Every five minutes for over an hour now,” Shelagh said. Suddenly shy, she looked at the pastel sheets on the bed, straightening a corner.

Sister Julienne took out her pinard, and carried out all necessary examinations. “Baby is doing well, Shelagh. He has a strong heartbeat.”

Thank God for small mercies, Shelagh thought.

Sister Julienne tucked her pinard back in her bag. “You’re not fully dilated, though. I think it’ll be a while yet.” She folded her hands and played with her ring, looking at the golden band.

Shelagh took her sister’s hand and squeezed it. “Sister, we must talk,” she said. They couldn’t sit in silence for hours, the air thick with things unsaid. In the end, their words would choke them, if the air didn’t become unbreathable first.

Sister Julienne looked at her with wet eyes, but didn’t speak, giving Shelagh the change to start.

Another contraction took her breath away. She did her best not to moan, but the pain was intense. When it was done, she was panting a little. “I need to move,” she murmured. To sit here, to have Sister Julienne stare at her, would not make it easier to speak.

“We could walk around the room, if you prefer,” Sister Julienne said. She helped Shelagh up, supporting her with a strong arm, holding her hand. They took small steps, circling the bed till they came upon the wall. Then, they had to turn around, and move in the opposite way, walking a horse-shoe pattern again and again as they spoke.

Shelagh wetted her lips with her tongue. “I’m not sorry for loving Patrick, Sister. Our love is… it’s beautiful, and I’m never ashamed to love.” Baby turned inside her. She stopped walking and inhaled deeply before continuing. “But I am sorry for all the heartache it caused. I never meant to smear Nonnatus’ reputation, but I fear I did.” She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I never meant to cause a rift between us, either,” she whispered. She looked up, trying to read her sister’s face, but her glasses had misted over.

Sister Julienne plucked them from her face and placed them on the nightstand. “Best not wear them. They’ll only slide from your nose later on, and get smeared with all kinds of things if we’re not careful,” she murmured.

“Sister,” Shelagh pleaded.

Sister Julienne turned to her. Her face was vague, undefined, as if Shelagh was looking at it through a window splattered with rain. “I never doubted your love for him, Shelagh,” Sister Julienne said, “But…” She sighed, and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. They resumed their walking. “At the sanatorium, you told me you were a nun, yet you already had… improper relations with Doctor Turner.”

Just once, when we were both hurting so much, Shelagh thought.

They had to suspend their conversation till another contraction had passed. The pain was horrible, and left Shelagh sweating and trembling.

“I was a nun, Sister, I really was!” she said as soon as she could speak again, “But then I changed, and it became only a part of who I was, and no longer defined me entirely.” Confused, she shook her head. “I should not have broken my vow. It was not a decent thing to do.” And yet I feel as if it had become something almost inevitable. When she had gone to Patrick that night, when she was in his arms, it had not felt wrong, or sinful; it had felt as if that was the only proper place for her to be.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Sister Julienne said, voice tremulous. “I know you would not have done what you did if it wasn’t for love, but I had hoped you would have come to your sisters for comfort. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I needed someone who wouldn’t talk about religion. His lack of faith in God made me understand my own belief in Him better than anything else could have done.”

Sister Julienne sighed. “Maybe that’s partly why I am hurt: my pride has been bruised. I thought you would always come to me, and you didn’t. I thought I knew everything about you, but I was wrong.”

“Nobody can ever know all there is to know about a person,” Shelagh said.

“I know that, now.”

They were silent for a moment, walking up and down the room. Shelagh moaned her way through another contraction, doing her best not to cry.

It is so bad already…

“There is pain relief I can give you,” Sister Julienne said.

“I know,” Shelagh said, loosening her grip on Sister Julienne’s hand. She stopped walking, and looked at her former sister. “I missed you terribly,” she confessed, the tears that had gathered during the contraction spilling from her eyes.

Sister Julienne swallowed audibly. “And I missed you, too.”

“I want us to be friends again, because… well, because I don’t think I can go through this if I don’t have a friend at my side.”

“Then rest assured, my dear girl, because I am your friend.”

Another contraction. Shelagh grabbed hold of the bed’s headboard as pain rippled through her. She sobbed. “I’m so afraid, Sister,” she confessed.

“I know. But you’ve been afraid before, and you always conquered it. Nevertheless, I shall get you some pethidine to help with the pain.” She studied Shelagh’s face. “But first some water. Your lips are chapped.”

She went to the kitchen. Shelagh sat down on the edge of the bed, rocking to make the pain bearable.

A loud bang shuddered through the house. Someone thundered up the stairs, taking them two or three a step judging by the sound. “Shelagh? Shelagh, please answer me!”

“Patrick?” she whispered.

Before she could raise her voice, Sister Julienne said: “Doctor Turner?”

Shelagh tried to get to her feet, but another contraction made her sink down and grit her teeth.

Her husband’s and ex-sister’s voices came closer, till they were just beyond the bedroom door.

“Please let me in, Sister Julienne! I know you don’t approve of husbands in the birthing room, but…”

“I’m not objecting to your presence, Doctor Turner, but I am objecting to you wearing soiled clothing in the presence of a patient,” Sister Julienne said.

Patrick fell quiet. Then, he said: “Oh. Right. I’ll put on something else, and wash my hands.”

Sister Julienne came back with a glass of water. Shelagh drank it greedily. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was. “Will you let Patrick be here with me?” she asked.

“It is unusual,” Sister Julienne said.

“I need him by my side,” Shelagh said.

“I know.” Sister Julienne said, smiling a little. She took Shelagh’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll give you some pethidine. I think you need that, too.” Sister Julienne was preparing the syringe when Shelagh’s womb contracted again. The pain made her turn her focus inwards. Her nightgown lay plastered against her back. Her hair was like damp fur in her neck. She combed a hand through it. Her fingers trembled.

But then, Patrick was by her side, holding her hand, rubbing her lower back. She rested her face in the crook of his neck, smelling his sweat and cigarettes and aftershave. When the contraction faded, she sighed, and squeezing his hand. His wedding ring bit in her skin.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured in her hair.

“You couldn’t know.”

“But still. You must’ve been so scared…”

“How could I be scared with Sister Julienne here?” Shelagh said, and smiled at her sister. “How could I be scared now that you are both here?”

It was true; she was no longer afraid. She patted her belly. “Time to meet Baby.”

***

The pain was still agony, but she had Patrick to hold on to, to ground her. Sister Julienne’s voice was clear as she gave encouragement after encouragement, instruction after instruction.

When it was time to push, Shelagh clung to Patrick, doing her best not to cry. “I’m so tired,” she murmured.

He kissed her brow. “I know, darling, but it’s almost over now.”

“It won’t be long, Shelagh, I promise. Now, you must push,” Sister Julienne said, patting her knee.

She bit her lip and forced herself to do what her former sister told her. After all, she could almost hold her baby, could almost see its face and determine how much it looked like the little face she’d dreamed up for herself. Excitement took hold of her, drowning her tiredness.

She did her best not to dig her nails in Patrick’s hand as she pushed, did her best not to grunt. He planted a kiss just below her ear.

“The head is born,” Sister Julienne said.

Thank God, Shelagh thought. She wanted to sink back, wanted to let Patrick’s thighs cradle her, his arms her blanket, his chest her pillow, but it wasn’t over yet.

“That’s my girl,” Patrick whispered. She smiled, and interlaced her fingers with his.

“Just one more,” Sister Julienne said.

Shelagh pushed, her toes curling into the sheets. Baby slithered out of her, its head cupped by Sister Julienne’s hand. “It’s a girl,” the nun said. The baby opened her mouth and cried.

“Can I hold her?” Shelagh asked, stretching her arms to her whimpering daughter.

Sister Julienne cut the cord, then handed her the baby. The child was slick and warm, her eyes the midnight blue of all new-borns. Patrick’s arms were heavy and warm around her. He stroked the baby’s head with his fingers.

“Hello. You were eager to meet us,” Shelagh whispered.

“We were eager to meet you, too,” Patrick said.

Shelagh leaned against him, cradling her daughter against her chest, dropping kisses against her damp, silken head. “All worth it,” she murmured. The pain, the heartbreak, the isolation…

“Placenta is out, all in one piece,” Sister Julienne said.

“Good.” Patrick kissed Shelagh’s face again. “Must give you a sponge bath, dear.”

“Not yet,” Shelagh said. She didn’t want this moment to end. Here, she was holding her child, was cradled by her husband, had Sister Julienne near. It felt like a spell that could be broken the way cobwebs could be brushed away.

“What are you going to call her?” Sister Julienne asked.

“Angela,” Shelagh said, “Angela Julienne.” She looked up. Her former sister’s face was tight with emotion, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

“Are you sure?”

“Completely,” Shelagh said, looking at her child again.

“She does look like an Angela,” Patrick quipped, tracing the gentle curve of his daughter’s skull with his thumb.

Shelagh twisted her head so she could kiss him. Ever since that fateful night at the surgery, she’d wanted to kiss him all the time. It was a desire that would never fade.

Love, she thought, the word becoming all consuming.

It’s because it’s love.

And now, I will forever realise how lucky I am.

I will be happy.

 Because my exams are drawing neigh, it is really quite possible that I won’t be able to write a fanfic every Friday from now on till about the first half of January. I’ll do my best and I’ll try to let you guys know in advance if there’s no fanfic for a week. Hopefully all will be back to normal after my exams are done!

[advocatewrites-blog]

Into the Unknown Part 3 Chapter 3

Into the Unknown

Fandom: Undertale, Coraline (book), Over the Garden Wall, Paranorman, Gravity Falls (season 2)

Characters: Frisk, Norman B., Dipper P., Mabel P., Coraline J., Wirt, Greg, the Cat, the Frog; Sans, Toriel, Papyrus, Undyne, Alphys, Asgore,; the Other Mother, the Beast, Agatha P., Bill Cipher, Asriel D., Chara D.,

Pairings: Not the focus. Alphys/Undyne, with mentions of Papyrus/Mettaton, sans/Toriel/Asgore, and Wirt/Sara. Due to the nature of Undertale and the dating segments, there is also interpretable Papyrus/Wirt, Undyne/Mabel, Alphys/Dipper, Napstablook/Norman, Mettaton/Norman, Mettaton/Mabel, Sans/Dipper, Sans/Norman, and Sans/Greg.

Rated a high +K for violence, mild language, horrific elements that may be disturbing to younger readers,  mentions of child abuse and bullying, character death that is sometimes permanent, and mentions of suicide that may be triggering. These elements remain relatively unchanged from their source material, which most all are for children, but discretion is advised nonetheless.

Disclaimer: Undertale was created and owned by Toby Fox. Coraline was created by Neil Gaiman and owned by Bloomsbury and Laika. Over the Garden Wall was created by Patrick McHale and owned by Cartoon Network. Paranorman was created by Sam Fell and Chris Butler and owned by Laika. Gravity Falls was created by Alex Hirsch and owned by Disney. Any other work mentioned or homage are property of their respective owners. This is a fan-made, nonprofit work that only seeks to entertain. Please support the original franchises.

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Chapter 3

Undyne was right behind him.

Norman ran along the piers in the Waterfall. Energy spears shot up from the ground, never quite hitting him but always getting closer than he wanted them to be.  The floor was splitting below him.

He reached a dead end. Undyne’s footsteps, loud metal clacking on wood, slowed. She knew it was a dead end too.

He turned and saw her take one more step, right where her spears had splintered the wood already. There was a sickening cracking noise as the bridge collapsed. He fell.

“It sounded like it came from over here…Oh! You’ve fallen down, haven’t you? Are you okay? Here, get up…Chara, huh? That’s a nice name. My name is—”

 He was awake before he could hear the last part of that.

It took Norman a minute to regain his bearings. He had landed on a patch of golden flowers, the same kind that were in the Ruins. Above head, he could make out just the faintest rays of the sun. He was still in the Underground.

What was that? It was too vivid to be a dream, he realized, and he did not think he had fallen asleep anyway. It was more like a vision. He did not recall having visions, but for some reason, the idea felt right in his head. If he could see ghosts, anything was possible, he supposed.

There was no point of worrying about it now. If it was a vision, it had not told him enough to make sense of it. Norman picked himself up and continued forward.

There was no better way to describe the things that emerged from the ground: they were zombies. They looked as ever bit grotesque as the art in Norman’s room depicted them; pale green skin that should have rotted, skeletal limbs and organs that should be spilling out.

The FIGHT began.

The Cat ran in-between Frisk and the zombies, hair sticking on ends and a hiss in his throat. He stood ready to pounce at the first sign of conflict. Without thinking about it, Frisk ran a CHECK on the closest one.

????? 80 ATK 80 DEF

He’s been asleep for a long time. It’s not his fault.

The zombie lurched forward, but did not otherwise attack. He would not attack them straight out, Frisk realized.  So they decided to ACT.

*CHECK                          *TALK

*CONSOLE                      *CRITISIZE

*STEAL WIG

Hi! I’m F-R-I-S-K! They signed quickly, ending with a little wave.

The zombies gave her a confused look. Maybe they didn’t understand signing. Frisk reached for their notebook and wrote it down during the zombie’s turn.

The zombie with the wig leaned into it, old eyes struggling to read it. He reached for the notebook and pen.

JUDGE HOPKINS 80 ATK 80 DEF

He’s been asleep for a long time. He did what he had to do.

The place Norman had landed in was a Dump. Most of the garbage had been kept in bins and bags, but quite a bit was flowing through the pond freely. Norman could make out some things that were clearly monster-made, like gloves for six-fingered folk and a jar of construction paper labelled “Temmy Flaeks.” Most of it, however, looked like it came from above; coolers, desktop computers with empty contents, DVD cases with desperate claw marks covering the surface.

Norman was so absorbed in looking for the human-made things that he hardly noticed when the Training Dummy jumped in front of him.

“HAHAHAHA…Too intimidated to fight me, huh!?” said the Dummy. “I am a ghost that lives inside a DUMMY. My cousin used to live inside a dummy, too. Until…YOU CAME ALONG!”

He barely remembered the Dummy, all the way back in the Ruins. Toriel had just told him to talk to it.  It did not even answer back.

“What did I do?” Norman asked.

“When you talked to them, they thought they were in for a nice chat,” Said the Dummy. “But the things you SAID…! Horrible. Shocking! UNBELIEVABLE!”

Norman may not have remembered the Dummy very well, but he knew that all he did was ask him how the weather was before Toriel said that was good enough.

“It spooked them right out of their dummy!  HUMAN! I’ll scare your Soul out of your body!”

Mad Dummy blocks the way.

“Listen, I didn’t mean—“ Norman started.

He stopped as a series of dummy-shaped bullets were fired his way. He jumped out of the way. He jumped back as they spun around like boomerangs and rushed back to him.

“OWWWW, you DUMMIES!! Watch where you’re aiming you MAGIC attacks!” the dummy cried.  “Wait…forget I said that!”

Another set of bullets fired towards him, but Norman easily dodged them and watched them fire back at the Mad Dummy.

“HEY GUYS!” The Mad Dummy shouted as he summoned his next round of bullets. “Dummies. Dummies! DUMMIES! YOU’RE FIRED! YOU’RE ALL BEING REPLACED!!!”

The dummy bullets faded out of existence with sheepish expressions,

“Now you’ll see my real power,” said the Mad Dummy. “Relying on people that aren’t garbage!”

Mechanical whirs filled the room. Norman tried to talk him down again. He didn’t seem much for conversation. Nobody was happy with this.

The next set of bullets appeared, bulkier and boxier than the others. Norman jumped out of the way like the others, only to turn around and find they were still chasing him down. He ran forward, coming face to nuzzle with the Mad Dummy as they lost course and plowed into it.

“DUMMY BOTS! You’re awful???” the Mad Dummy cried.

More missiles were launched towards Norman, and he found himself running in circles. A few more hit the Mad Dummy.

“Who cares. Who cares! WHO CARES!!! I DON’T NEED FRIENDS!”

The dummy bots vanished, and were replaced with a single large bullet.

“I GOT KNIVES!!!”

The knife landed by Norman’s feet.

“I’m…out of knives.”

More bullets filled the field, but not the ones the Mad Dummy used. Most of them faded out before they got close to Norman, instead landing on the Mad Dummy and sizzling.

“Wh-what the heck is this? Acid rain?” said the Mad Dummy. “Oh FORGET IT! I’m outta here!”

The Mad Dummy slipped past Norman and back out into the fields of worthless garbage.

“…sorry, I interrupted you, didn’t I? as soon as I came over, your friend immediately left…oh no, it looked like you guys were having fun…oh no………………………………………………………………………………..”

There was a storm brewing in Blithe’s Hollow. As soon as the sun set and the dead rose, there was a chill in the air. Storm clouds hung in the air, crackling with thunder. Frisk could just make out the shapes that formed as they swirled. But it was not just a storm; that much was obvious. There was a type of pressure on their Soul, the same they usually felt as a Fight started. Something else was going on.

After a long back and forth conversation between two people that could not talk and two games of tic-tac-toe, Frisk understood better. The witch was not buried with the judges. They would have to find her grave, and start from there. Judge Hopkins was the only one, possibly ever, who knew where she was buried, so he led the way.

The town was deathly still. What was once packed with ghosts and people now only held a few cars and bystanders. The only sign that there was still life were the neon signs and traffic lights.

For some reason, that scared the zombies the most.

I know, gas prices have gone too high, Frisk wrote down in the notebook, because it seemed like a smart thing to say.

Jude Hopkins snatched the notebook from them and began writing furiously. He had filled nearly a page when they first heard the screams.

“well…I’m gonna go head home now…” said Napstablook. “oh…feel free to ‘come with’ if you want…but no pressure…”

“I don’t want to impose,” said Norman.

“neither do I…” said Napstablook.

They didn’t seem much for conversation. Nobody was happy with this.

“I live up just this way, in case you want to join me…” said Napstablook. “or, in case, you don’t…”

The neighborhood that sat just above the dump was small. There were only a handful of houses but they were all uniquely shaped. No one house looked the same, and no one house looked like a real house. Even Napstablook’s house was built into its neighbors, forming a perfectly symmetrical image.

The interior was much more what Norman would have expected. There were no chairs, but he remembered how his grandmother liked to phase in and out of furniture and figured most ghosts didn’t invest in things they could not touch. Yet there was a desk with a working computer, a small TV, even a refrigerator. And on the other side of the house were piles and piles of CDs.

“uh…do you wanna…listen to some tunes, or something…?” Napstablook asked.

[ruthlessbookfish]

Outlaw by Katana Collins - Part 1

March 7

My Reviews

Outlaw Part 1

I have high hopes for Patrick and Michelle. I love where the story is heading. That ending was perfect 

 *I voluntarily read an advanced readers copy of this book*

Title: Outlaw: Part 1

Series: Harrison Street Crew #2

Author: Katana Collins

Genre: Gritty Erotic Romance

Release Date: March 7, 2017

Blurb

Worse than bad. Hotter than hot. These are the bad boys of the Harrison Street Crew, and they answer to no one. They take what they want. And what they want is you. Patrick Flanagan lives outside the law. The cops don’t like him. The law doesn’t trust him. He may come at you with a charm and a handsome smile, but make no mistake—he’s as reckless and bad as they come. But when a total bombshell with stilettos and a power suit comes blazing into his life, this bad boy is about to be so, so good…  Ambitious lawyer Michelle Chiccarini vowed like hell she is going to do her best to prosecute as many criminals as she could. Even if that means trying to put away Patrick Flanagan, a man who can make her pulse quicken and fill her head with dirty, wicked thoughts just by looking at him. She’s got to put him behind bars. But how can she do that, when she can’t even resist his touch?

Patrick Flanagan won’t go to jail. Not when he’s got a woman as gorgeous as Michelle aching for his every touch and pushing his lust for her past the boiling point. Even though she’s a lawyer tasked with putting him in prison, he can’t stay away from her. Michelle is falling fast and hard for Patrick, but is he guilty? Or is he innocent? She wants to trust her bad boy from the streets, but is he telling the truth?

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Four Months Later

Patrick Flanagan came to quickly. Or at least, he thought it was quickly. His head was resting on the steering wheel, his shoulders and chest slumping forward like dead weight. He blinked awake. What happened? Where am I?

Brushing his fingers over the ram like symbol at the center of the wheel, he glanced around, eyes darting back and forth. He wasn't in his car; his Pantera. Why wasn't he in his own car? He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking hard. The memory slammed into him, hard and fast. Oh, that's right... he stole this one. Some poor unsuspecting fool's Toyota that they left running in the parking lot of a Hannaford. When will people ever learn? Leaving the car running is to a car thief what an unattended t-bone is to a stray dog. It was irresistible. An invitation to steal it. A big fat target with flashing lights that said: Take me! I'm easy!

Red and blue lights streaked into Patrick's car. Two cop cars were just now rolling to a stop behind him. The cops were just pulling up, so he couldn't have been out that long. Breathing deeply, he pulled himself together, wincing as he pushed himself off the wheel and sat straight up.

What the hell caused him to wreck?

He backtracked the evening's events—the meeting between Harrison Street Crew and Sauceda's Crew. He wasn't at the meeting though. He was the decoy if cops came into the area. He saw the cruiser and took off to distract them, pull them away from the docks and it worked like a charm. Until—oh yeah. That's what happened. A fucking cat darted across the road or... hell, for all he knew it could have been a raccoon. And going sixty on a 35mph back road, he swerved, smashing into a post office box. He must have knocked himself out.

Waiting, he watched in the mirror as the cops in one cruiser jumped out of their car, holding their guns out. Shouting some nonsense about getting out of the vehicle.

Thank God he'd thought to choose to steal a car with tinted windows; they couldn't make out his face. And so he smiled at them in the reflection, knowing they couldn't see a damn thing. They couldn't see his HSC vest or who he was or even that he was flipping them off.

Wiping at the blood trickling down the side of his face, he gave it another few seconds. The second cruiser wasn't getting out. They were the smarter cops.

“Okay girl,” he whispered, brushing his hand over the steering wheel. “Sorry to do this to you, but we don't have a choice.” Hopefully this Toyota's tires were okay... because if not? They were about to find out the hard way.

Punching into reverse, Patrick backed off the Southie curb, tires squealing as he slammed the clutch with his foot and put the car in gear.

He took off, leaving the officers with guns pointed at him scrambling like Keystone Cops. The cruiser that was smart enough to leave their engine running took off after him. The night air cut in through the sun roof blowing his curls wildly around his face and providing a much needed coolness to his sweat-damp strands. Felt fucking great.

The blue and red lights hit against the reflective rearview mirror, nearly blinding him. He pushed harder and could smell the smoke of the engine, but at least it seemed the tires were holding up. Those damn police lights wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't been trying to push up to eighty miles an hour in the curvy back roads of Southie. But at that speed? A momentary flash of lights blinding you in the mirrors could result in your car wrapped around a telephone pole.

Oh, wait, he thought chuckling to himself. Been there, done that.

Instead of slowing down, Patrick tightened his grip on the steering wheel and squinting through distraction and the headache pulsing at his temples, he pressed even harder into the gas pedal. He had a job to do; one job tonight to accomplish for Rig and the Harrison Street Crew. And that was to intercept any cops in the area and get them as far from the docks as he could—then get back to Megan's Pub in time for the money drop off.

And pray to God that the two tasks don't get in the way of each other.

He turned up his radio, Black Betty blaring through the speakers and he couldn't help the little smile that tipped at the corner of his mouth.

This shit was fun. No way around that. Even if he got caught, there was an exhilaration to the getaway. One that pumped adrenaline through his veins so fast that he could practically feel the chemical change taking affect.

The blue and red flashing lights were gaining on him, the two headlights nearly kissing his bumper. But that was the plan. Keep them with him until they were out of the vicinity.

Maneuvering around the other cars on the road was always the hardest. Slow pokes sticking to the 35mph speed limit—good for them. Patrick slid from right lane to left grabbing the small bag of pop rocks he'd left in the cup holder and pouring a bunch into his mouth as a distraction to the blood dripping from the cut on his head and the pounding headache.

The sizzle of retro hard candy and sugar just increased his pulse as the on-ramp to I-93 came into view.

This was it. “Come on piggies—time to huff and puff,” he said to himself with another glance in the rearview mirror. Then, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator jolting forward with an additional 15mph. Not so fast that they couldn't keep up... but time to get down to business.

A 16-wheeler was in the right lane of the highway moving slow enough to be a problem, but fast enough that Patrick couldn't get off the on-ramp without hitting the brakes. With the cops on his ass? Hitting the brakes was not something he wanted to do.

“Shit,” Patrick muttered and nervous sweat trickled down his neck. Instead of sliding into the proper lane, Patrick stayed where he was, the car lurching as the on ramp turned into a texturized shoulder of the highway. Vibrations rumbled beneath his ass as he overtook the truck and abruptly swerved in front of it and just behind a Volvo.

The right lane was packed with cautious drivers slowing down at the sound of the police sirens; that's what responsible citizens do... they pull over. Slow down.

The good news was that the left lane was wide open.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Patrick slid into the left lane and the cop had fallen back a few cars behind the truck. A cakewalk, Patrick thought.

He dipped under the tunnel funneling him from South End Boston taking him right into downtown. Something—someone would be waiting for him on the other side of that tunnel.

He just didn't know what yet.

Up ahead, the light from the edge of the tunnel came into view growing larger and larger. The cop tailing him hung back... still close enough to follow, but significantly slowing down.

A second siren ahead of him echoed in the distance. He exited the tunnel, traffic beside him slowing and stopping at the sounds of sirens and lights coming up behind them.

He zipped beyond the tunnel, back out into Boston Center. From the next exit's on-ramp, he could see another cruiser entering the highway.

Reinforcements. A high speed chase in the middle of Boston wasn't something the police overlooked. Not with the tense political climate these days and with Jeremy Chiccarini actively trying to eradicate the car clubs from Boston.

If I can smoke one cruiser, I can smoke two.

Except, this cruiser up ahead wasn't attempting to chase him; it was staying to the side... off the road and blocking the shoulder. Glancing in the rearview, he noticed the cop behind him had slowed down even more. Still on his tail, but much further off in the distance, the blue and red lights little pinpricks in the dark night.

Up ahead he heard the whomp of a helicopter and a quick glance confirmed that it was not a news helicopter, but a police air monitor. Something was up. They had a plan.

Patrick chewed on what was left of the Pop Rocks in his mouth, enjoying the crunch as he thought hard.

No one was on the road up ahead—his tires. They must be trying to take out his tires. And that's why the cruiser was blocking the shoulder, so that he couldn't go around whatever they had set up.

Well, shit. This wasn't good. Every exit was blocked leading up to the tire blowers and he was already two exits beyond where he was supposed to get off, heading toward North End now.

Patrick eased off the gas, slowing down. Tension was palpable in the air and he could see the cops positioned, guns ready from behind the car. The off ramp was just beyond the road block and they had barricaded the other ramp, cutting off civilian access to the highway.

Once he had slowed down enough, Patrick gripped the E-brake and with a deep breath and quick Hail Mary, he yanked it, spinning the car in the opposite direction. The flow of traffic behind him was at a crawl, staying far behind the scene and the cop that was on his tail continued its advance; this time face on. Shoving into fourth gear, Patrick accelerated once more, heading in the opposite direction of the highway flow and directly toward the flashing lights and headlights of the cop. It was a daring game of chicken, but one he knew he'd win. They had no idea if he was armed and shooting at him wasn't an option.

He picked up speed, just above seventy; not too crazy. In his rearview mirrors, he saw the cops that had set up the barricade, scrambling to get into their car and chase him the other way. The helicopter over head, stayed just above him.

Perfect. Fast enough to cause alarm; but not so fast he would lose control.

Two thousand feet from the cop. One thousand. And as he hit jut a few hundred feet, he pulled the ebrake again, turning into the cove between the north and south highways where cops wait to pull you over. The tires screeched beneath him and he could only imagine the damage he was doing to this poor Toyota. A cop was waiting for him there, just as he had anticipated—but with Patrick going sixty in that turn and the cop standing still, it didn't stand a chance.

Patrick slammed into the stagnant cop's back bumper and turned onto the opposite highway, going in the other direction on I93, back with the flow of traffic.

No tire popping road blocks there. And as suspected, the cruisers following him couldn't handle such a fast and unexpected turn.

Two down, one to go, he thought looking to the sky where the helicopter still tailed him. He took the next exit, sliding off it easily and though still speeding, he was cautious not to go too fast. Sticking about twenty above the speed limit. He was certain that on the police radio, they were calling in other cruisers to cut him off ahead. Patrick snaked his way through the city, traffic taking its toll on his speed and he dodged, weaving in and out of the right and left lanes while also taking unexpected turns that were completely unpredictable.

Though it took twice as long, he finally pulled up to a parking garage in the Government Center. He slammed into the red and white arm that was supposed to make you stop and take a ticket, cracking the damn thing right in half. Completely covered from the helicopter, he breathed a little easier as he raced up the ramp, curving around until he reached the third floor of the parking garage, safely out of view. He could hear the sirens behind him; the additional cruisers knowing just where he was pulling up. There was no time to fuck around. He didn't even bother sliding the stolen car into a parking spot. Pulling his baseball hat lower over his eyes, he grabbed the rest of the Pop Rocks in his gloved hand, a few spilling onto the driver's seat as he climbed out of the vehicle and slammed the door shut. Peeling his vest off, he shoved it into a messenger bag he carried and straightened his REO Speedwagon t-shirt, thankful that it wasn't a Celine Dion concert that night at the Government Center. Walking quickly but casually, he made it to the elevator, one by one hitting the fire alarms along the way.

A roar of panic swept around him and below him at the government center as he stepped off the elevator into the sea of people exiting the concert. Fear and anxiety was a potent force and the crowd wasn't walking anymore—they were running toward the exits. Half of them flooded the garage toward their cars to escape, the other half went to the train station or just straight ahead; anywhere to get to safety. Patrick kept pace with the crowd until he reached his car; his Pantera which he had parked in a dirt lot outside of the concert earlier that day. He slipped the attendant a twenty dollar bill and casually climbed inside, peeling his gloves off and tucking them in the dashboard.

It was going to take Patrick forever to get back to Southie, especially with all these road blocks. But if he kept to the speed limit and didn't get pulled over, he should make it to Megan's Pub in plenty of time to finish the drop off for Rig and the club.

He smiled, the exhilaration of the chase causing a series of excited shivers convulsing his body. Pulling out his burner phone, he texted Rig—his boss and President of HSC, his car club; his family. His home.

All's well. No more cops should be wasting time near the docks tonight.

It only took a moment for Rig's response to come in:

Good. Get your ass back to Southie. Deal is taking longer than I thought to secure, but I want you at Megan's ready and waiting.

“Aye, aye, boss,” Patrick said with a mock salute to the phone. Then texted confirmation that he was on his way before he slid his vest back on and made his way back down to Southie.

And the night's only begun, he thought.

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Author Bio

Katana Collins is lucky enough to love her day job almost as much as she loves writing. She splits her time evenly between photographing boudoir and newborn portraits and writing steamy romances in a variety of genres -- paranormal, contemporary, new adult and suspense. She bounces between living in New York and Portland, Maine, with an ever-growing brood of rescue animals: a kind of mean cat, a very mellow chihuahua, and a very not mellow lab puppy... oh yeah, there's a husband somewhere in that mix, too. She can usually be found hunched over her laptop in a cafe, guzzling gallons of coffee, and wearing fabulous (albeit sometimes impractical) shoes.

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